


Detour

by holograms



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-Canon, Recreational Drug Use, Road Trips, Slow Build, Unhealthy Relationships, offensive language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-21 10:24:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 47,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4825475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrew and Fletcher become serial killers by happenstance and travel across the country, (sort of) give up jazz by necessity, and are awful to each other the entire time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the final countdown.

**Author's Note:**

> This is something that got _substantially_ of hand. Originally conceived as just a serial killer au, it also took on form as a road trip au, and then would not stop. Lots of things in this story probably could not happen in real life, mostly because I don't know how federal investigations work, or murders for that matter. A lot of this is incredibly fucked up; I know I've said that before but yeah, this one is.  Murder and bad choices everywhere. I'll try to add content tags for each chapter, because it's way too much to put on the tagging system. But an alternative title for this is: they kill a lot of people and have a lot of sex and have a lot of problems and they are both angry and happy about it.
> 
>  _But general warnings:_ depictions of murder (in various ways), violence, explicit sex, physical and emotional abuse, emotional manipulation, unhealthy power dynamics all around. There's a lot more, but that's the main things.
> 
> But yeah. I don't know how I've gone this wrong in my life.

For once in his life, the blood on his hands is not his own.

It fascinates Andrew.  There’s a sense of dissociation — blood on his hands is nothing new, but the sharp pain that usually accompanies it is missing. He holds his hands in front of him for a closer examination, admiring, and the longer he looks the more he realizes that he’s grown accustom to seeing his palms slick with red, sticking warm and fresh between his fingers.  How _normal_ of a look it is on him.  How well it fits him.  His signature accessory.

His acquaintance to it is why his hands aren’t shaking even though he knows they probably should be.  It’s why he watches in perfect stillness as a trail of blood follows the delicate curve of his wrist and drips onto the floor.

It draws his attention, and he manages to pry his eyes away from the mess on his hands to the mess on the floor, and he has to sense to know that this is Not Good.

Careful not to step in the pool of blood on the floor, he goes to the sink and washes his hands, and the water becomes a stark gradient of deep red, to pink, to clear.  He unrolls a wasteful amount of paper towels, dries his hands, and then uses the wad of paper to wipe the blood handprint off the handle that he left behind when he turned on the faucet.

Satisfied with his cleanliness, he turns around and leans against the counter, rocking back on his heels as he looks down at the floor. He considers what to do with this predicament as it rapidly becomes more problematic, its damning evidence rapidly growing in size, blood rapidly reaching across his kitchen floor.

There’s a few things he knows he could do — _should do_ — but he does the only thing he can do.

Thankfully, Fletcher isn’t feeling fickle and answers when Andrew calls.

“I fucked up,” Andrew says over the phone, measured and steady at first, but admitting it out loud, admitting it to _Fletcher_ is what makes the realization come crashing down and all of the sudden the metallic scent of blood hits him so strongly he can taste it in mouth, and it’s hard to breathe — he’s panicking, he knows this — and between gasps of air he works really hard to suppress a sob, but the following, “I need you, please,” comes out as a whine anyway that dissolves into tears.

 

•••

 

It must have been the desperation in his voice ( _maybe he thinks I’ve overdosed_ , Andrew thinks), because thirty-four minutes later there’s a knock at his door, rushed and unforgiving.  The non-identifier signals that it’s Fletcher — Fletcher never announces himself — and Andrew breathes a sigh of relief, because he hadn’t been sure if he would come.

Andrew opens the door without checking through the peephole ( _always check, you never know who could be outside,_ his dad has told him, but Andrew is the one who invited the devil over of his own volition) and there’s Fletcher, looking mildly annoyed and wearing a maroon button down and jeans.

It isn’t the first time that Fletcher has been to his apartment — he’s a familiar figure here as he is everywhere else in Andrew’s life.  On more than one occasion Andrew has had to apologize to his neighbors for the “ill-mannered old man” that visits him, but it hasn’t done any good, Fletcher spreads his rudeness wherever he goes.  Every time Fletcher has a reason to come over (drop off charts, take Andrew home when he’s too drunk, to wake up Andrew up at four in the morning to go running), he has a manner that he’s disgruntled that he has to deal with Andrew’s “filth” — Fletcher’s words — but also overjoyed that he can claim Andrew’s personal space as his own territory, if only for a little while.

Andrew says a quick _hello_ that isn’t reciprocated — instead, Fletcher knits his brows together and says, “What the fuck happened to your face?”

“My…face?” Andrew asks, not sure if it’s something other than one of Fletcher’s usual put-downs.

“There’s blood all over it. And your shirt.” Fletcher edges inside the apartment and closes the door behind him.  He continues, “It’s not yours, is it?” and takes a step closer to Andrew, grabbing his arm and pulling him towards him, so he can get a better look.

Andrew can’t help the slight grin that his mouth tugs into as Fletcher’s careful eyes scan over him, but he hasn’t a clue as to what he’s talking about so he stays silent. He’s learned that it’s best to not say anything when he has nothing useful to contribute. 

When Andrew doesn’t respond, Fletcher’s eyes darken.  “What happened?” he asks, pressuring, and Andrew feels as hopeless as when he was in his studio band and knew nothing, was nothing.

There is no way to really explain what transpired, so Andrew shakes off Fletcher’s hand and steps to the side so Fletcher can get a clear view to the kitchen and the dead body that lies there.

If anything, he can now say he’s finally rendered Fletcher speechless.

 

•••

 

Fletcher quietly observes the scene in the kitchen as Andrew goes into the bathroom and cleans himself up, as ordered by Fletcher.

Looking at his reflection, Andrew sees that there is indeed blood on his face — a now dry spray splattered on his right side, to his cheek to his neck, and ends with speckles of red on his worn-out white V-neck shirt.

It paints a story that Andrew remembers: him grabbing the knife that had skittered across the floor in the struggle, the arc of his arm as he plunged the blade into the man, how easy it was to do it again and again, and the feeling of warm blood that isn’t his own showering him.

The blood comes off easy enough with a damp towel.

When he goes back into the main area he finds Fletcher still standing over the lifeless body, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed.  He looks rather mundane about the whole thing, as though he’s trying to work out a complicated chart and not the gruesome scene before him.  Andrew doesn’t know how that attitude should make him feel — Fletcher’s ease could mean that everything will be okay, or it could just be the calm before the storm.

Aware of Andrew’s presence, Fletcher looks up and gestures out with a hand.  “Explain,” Fletcher says.  He says it in a slow, measured cadence, as if he were talking to someone who needs very clear instructions because they’re too stupid to understand. It’s a voice he uses sometimes with Andrew, when shouted brutal insults aren’t getting through.

Andrew fidgets. “He was going to kill me,” he says, and he feels silly, feeling like he’s six years old and explaining why he pushed someone on the playground.  “I was protecting myself.”

“Stabbing someone what looks like upwards of ten times doesn’t necessarily constitute as ‘protecting yourself.’”  Fletcher points an accusatory finger at the body.  “This is just…I don’t even fucking know.  You’ve reached a new rock bottom, Neiman.  And that’s saying a lot.”

A protest rises within Andrew, but he thinks better of it.  He doesn’t like how Fletcher is looking at him — as if he’s looking at a stranger, and not someone that he has shaped into being his protégé over the last ten months. He wants to tell Fletcher that killing the guy was easy because the guy had not expected it. He wants to tell Fletcher that too often people have low expectations of him, but he keeps surpassing them, doesn’t he know? 

But he doesn’t say those things; instead, he just shrugs.

Fletcher sighs, muttering under his breath.  “I told you to stay away from the drugs.”

“What does this have to do with drugs?”  He feigns ignorance. 

Fletcher gives Andrew his best _don’t fuck with me_ glare. “The door wasn’t forced open, which means that you knew the guy who’s now in rigor mortis on your floor. He’s obviously your drug dealer, and I’m sure that you took all the drugs he had on him before you called me.”

Dammit, Andrew hates it when Fletcher is right.  “I owe a lot of money so this guy came to uh, solve the problem.”

“And that is what I call a _You Problem_.” Fletcher shoves his hands in his pockets and turns to leave, careful to step over the blood that’s flowing in the tile grout like little waterways.

“Wait! What do I do?”

“Call the police, I don’t give a fuck.  Like I said, not my problem.” 

Andrew steps close, and uses his height to his advantage to look down at Fletcher. Andrew plays the trump card he’s been holding all night.  “It _will_ be your problem if I go to jail.” He pauses for effect, grins, and then adds, “Who would be your precious Charlie Parker then?”

(It’s something Andrew figured out without Fletcher ever blatantly telling him — that he’s proof that Fletcher didn’t waste his entire life searching for him, and that his method is justifiable.)

There’s silence, but then Fletcher pushes up his sleeves and says, “Only because I don’t let my investments go to waste.”

 

•••

 

_(“I’m only going to say this once,” Fletcher had said, after everyone from the Carnegie JVC had gone home. “You’ve got what it takes.”_

_Andrew had smiled, so much he thought his face would break.  “So you were wrong?” he breathed, still jittery from the final notes. He believed that they would reverberate in his bones forever._

_“Not wrong, just…I’m used to disappointment,” Fletcher said.  “And you…were not a disappointment.  This time.”_

_Fletcher’s praise was better than the applause — it was the highest accolade._

_When Fletcher asked what would be the most important question of Andrew’s life, Andrew didn’t have to think twice before he answered.)_

 

•••

 

They dispose the body in the furnace of Andrew’s building, along with Andrew’s bloodstained shirt and the towels that they used to clean up the mess. 

“Don’t ever say I never did anything for you,” Fletcher says.

In the days that follow they don’t talk about it.  Practice continues as usual (Fletcher obviously not afraid that Andrew might have a psychotic break and stab him to death with his sticks), and after a few days the pungent reek of bleach fades from Andrew’s kitchen.  As an extension, the foreign feeling of the blood of another fades from his mind and does not haunt his dreams.  And nobody finds the remnant of the body in the furnace. 

All seems well. 

But one week after Fletcher helped him cover up a murder, Andrew almost gets murdered himself. Again.

Andrew is hanging out backstage after a performance, high and bone-tired exhausted. He’s sure that everyone else has already gone home, unencumbered by the feeling like they have to linger around the place like a strange jazz ghost.

So it catches him by surprise when someone rushes up and tackles him to the floor and presses a gun to his head.

Andrew struggles but it’s no use — the man sent this time to kill him is much stronger than the one who went to his apartment, and is much more determined.

Cold metal against his head, Andrew thinks of how he’s only a few feet away from dying on a stage, and he wonders if the man would kill him there if he asked nicely. It would be poetic — a memorable death, forever memorializing him as the would-be greatest drummer who ever lived that shed his blood on stage one final time, dying before he could reach his full potential. 

 _I am going to die,_ Andrew thinks, and a sob escapes. He’s allowed that, he thinks. He thinks of things he’s going to leave behind — his sad and alone dad, his drum kit, Fletcher—

He can’t help but wonder if Fletcher will miss him, actually miss _him,_ not just his talent that he pretends not to be dependent on. Andrew likes to think he will. 

He’s halfway gone already so he doesn’t really know how it happens, but he thinks that it might have to do something with his thoughts of him summoning him, because suddenly Fletcher appears and fucking _lunges_ at his would-be killer, grabbing him off of Andrew and throwing him to the floor.

Andrew lies dazed on the floor watching the scene unfold in front of him: the guy is so surprised, it’s easy for Fletcher to take control of the situation. It happens quick — Fletcher manages to get the weapon from him, and then aims and pulls the trigger.

The sound of the shot echoes in the room, followed by a thud of the guy hitting the floor, dead.

Spurred out of his inaction, Andrew jumps up, clambering over his feet a bit, and shrilly shouts, “You killed him!”

Fletcher turns to Andrew, his expression one Andrew has never seen before.  He still holds the gun.  After a moment, he says, “I guess that makes us both murderers now.” 

He wants to explain to Fletcher that they aren’t murderers because they were protecting themselves, and those who they killed were scum anyway (it’s what Andrew has been reciting to himself repetitively for days).  If he hadn’t of killed him, Andrew would be the one dead.

It makes Andrew realize something.  “You saved my life,” he says, looking up at his uncommon savior.  Once again, he finds himself indebted to Fletcher.  It’s almost a joke how the megalomaniac finds new ways to control his life.  Andrew supposes that Fletcher had to save him after all the investment he’s put in him, even though he has threated to kill him during practices.  Many times Fletcher has told him that he’s _his_. And Andrew knows Fletcher well enough that he takes care of his possessions. 

“Don’t be so dramatic, princess.” Fletcher scowls, and shoves the gun in his pocket.  “Are you going to help me get rid of this guy?”

 

•••

 

They dump the body in the back alley by the club, inconspicuously carted outside in one of the big black music equipment boxes.  Nothing to see here, just musicians transferring instruments.

“It shouldn’t be suspicious here,” Andrew says, “murders happen every day in the city. Especially with drug-related crimes.” 

“Oh, _now_ we’re calling it murder?”

Andrew doesn’t say anything; he just scoffs as he hefts the now empty box back up the stairs.

 

•••

 

It appears it’s another job well done, but Fletcher always has to ruin everything.

“They won’t stop.” Fletcher had been silent on the cab ride to his apartment, energy radiating off of him the entire time, so strong that it made Andrew sick. 

Andrew sits on Fletcher’s sofa while Fletcher paces back and forth in front of him, unfolding their current situation.  “Because your junky ass decided to fuck up everything like I _knew_ it would—”

“Now you’re the one being overdramatic,” Andrew says, interrupting his diatribe. Since their partnership, he’s grown more daring — a smartass remark here, an insult spat back there. It makes for interesting discourse. He’s sure that Fletcher expects it from him now (because after all, Fletcher’s goal is to make Andrew into his image).

Fletcher scowls, unconvinced. He tells Andrew that no, this is a big deal and that now these drug lords are going to be after him, too. He tells him that the police are the least of their worries.  He tells him that as long as they stay here, it isn’t safe, because this has gone much further than just owing money.

“We have to go,” Fletcher says.  "You and I have to vanish."

There’s a wild mania in Fletcher’s eyes that Andrew hasn’t seen too often, but it’s a strong enough indicator to know that he’s dead serious.

And, he knows that Fletcher is right.  As always.


	2. sabotage.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew rethinks his decision. Fletcher makes plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the nice comments; You all are great! Here is more. 
> 
> I forgot to mention that the chapter titles are taken from songs. This one is from the [Beastie Boys](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z5rRZdiu1UE); it's a great "drive down the road very fast" song.

“Call your dad,” Fletcher says.  “Tell him we’re going on a trip.  A conference. Charity benefit concert. Music camp. Whatever.”

Andrew sighs, and looks out the window at the passing scenery, the rented blue Camry zipping through a tree-lined highway.  He wonders if he made a mistake, something he’s been thinking about since they passed the Pennsylvania state line. 

It’s too late now, though. He considers jumping out the car and tuck-and-rolling it, but there’s a strong possibility that Fletcher would turn around and run him over if he did catapult himself from the car.

The plan was to make it look like they left on purpose.  Fletcher had packed his bag, carefully folding his clothes and placing items to make space most efficient, then a second bag almost identical to the first, except that the first bag has the gun he had bequeathed from the guy who is now rotting in an alley.  When they got to Andrew’s, Fletcher ordered him to pack only the essentials, and a second bag as well. He had made a face when Andrew threw two practice pads and his sticks into his main bag, but he didn’t say anything.

They would be Andrew’s comfort, because he had to leave his drum kit behind, sitting in the corner of his living room.  Andrew wishes he had it now.  He needs to get rid of some of his tension. 

Once they had gathered their bags, they rented a car under Fletcher’s name, withdrew the max amount from their accounts from an ATM, and that was that. 

His dad doesn’t ask too many questions; anymore, it’s not unusual for Andrew to take off to god knows where with his mentor.  His dad says, _Have a good time, call me when you’re back, I love you._

Andrew chokes out a, “You too,” trying to find some privacy in the passenger seat. He’s very aware of Fletcher a couple feet away listening in on his conversation.

After his dad hangs up, Andrew wishes he had fully returned his dad’s affectionate statement. He wipes his eyes, only just realizing that it’s bothering him more than he thought it would. 

“Stop weeping over missing your daddy,” Fletcher says.

Andrew shoots him a sidelong glance.  “You don’t seem too upset.” It’s true — Andrew has seen Fletcher more upset on many occasions over much less trivial things. “Maybe you wanted an excuse to leave your shitty life behind.”

Without taking his eyes off the road, Fletcher reaches over and smacks him in the face.

“Hey!” 

Fletcher grips the steering wheel tight.  “If I were to escape of my own volition,” he says, words slowly drawn out, “it wouldn’t be with you.”

Andrew doesn’t point out that Fletcher is the one who made him go along with him, and if Fletcher was so irritated with him he could have just run away on his own and left him behind, but Andrew fears that Fletcher would call his bluff.

 

•••

 

They drive for five hours straight before they stop at the first nondescript diner where Fletcher decides they wouldn’t contract food poisoning. 

Andrew mulls over the old-style jukebox while they wait for their food.  He had needed time away from Fletcher and his oppressive presence; five hours locked in a car with him is a bit much to handle. It’s as though he’s able to suck all the oxygen out of the enclosed space.

Of course, there aren’t any jazz selections to choose from on the jukebox, but he didn’t really expect it from a place called the Turkey Trap Diner. Regardless, he puts in all the change that’s in his pocket and punches in his sections. 

When he returns to the table, he finds Fletcher pouring over a map of the United States — an actual paper map, one of those annoying ones that once it’s unfolded it can never be put back the same way.  Andrew can’t help but smile as he slides into the seat across from him, because about two hundred miles ago they had a shouting match about the GPS when Fletcher got off an exit too early — 

(“It said ‘turn’! Why the fuck does it keep telling me it’s rerouting?”

“It said turn in a _mile_ , not now! It was letting you know ahead of time!”

“That makes no goddamned sense!”

“It’s okay, my dad doesn’t know how it works either.  I know old people have a difficult time with technology.”) 

— and they missed the next turn as well, because they were too busy yelling at each other.

“We can stop in West Virginia tonight.”  Fletcher traces a path on the map with his finger.  “Then we’ll ditch the rental car and go from there.”

Andrew _mmhmms_ in agreement.  He isn’t really sure about Fletcher’s plan, but goes along with it nonetheless.  (He wouldn’t miss this for the world.)

The first of his music selections kick in over the diner’s stereo — a heavy country offbeat and _I hear the train a comin’, it’s rollin’ around the bend—_

Fletcher looks up to meet Andrew’s amused eyes.  “Funny,” Fletcher says, with his face scrunched up and absolutely no humor in his voice at all. 

“I thought so,” Andrew says, talking over Johnny Cash singing about being stuck in prison and trains going down to San Antone. 

“You better be glad I saved your sorry ass.  You wouldn’t do well in jail.  You don’t have the patience of Andy Dufresne to Shawshank Redemption yourself free.”

Their food comes — chicken tenders and fries for Andrew, and meatloaf and mixed vegetables for Fletcher. They made a good judgment call; it’s edible and not half bad.  Or maybe they’re just starving, Andrew thinks.  Everything is always better once you’ve been deprived of it.

The second of Andrew’s jukebox selections plays—

_I hear the train a comin’, it’s rollin’ around the bend—_

“Really, Andrew?” 

Andrew dips his chicken in honey mustard.  “It’s four songs for a dollar.  I put in two dollars.” He takes a bite. “For ‘Folsom Prison Blues’ eight times.” 

Needless to say, Fletcher isn’t amused.  But the prank is worth the swift kick in the shin Andrew gets.

On the fourth round of the song, the other patrons of the diner have realized that something strange is going on and they start looking around, trying to find the culprit of the Groundhog Day repeat of the same song over and over.  Andrew has to stifle his giggles; Fletcher glares.

“I’ve never been on a road trip before,” Andrew says.  He’s done with his meal first; he eats fast, something his dad and Fletcher always criticize.

Fletcher’s fork clanks against the dish.  “This is _not_ a road trip.”  He leans forward, elbows on the table.  “You do remember why we’re on this excursion, right?”

For the sixth time, Johnny drones, _I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die._

“Yeah,” Andrew says. “I remember.”

After the song fades out for the eighth and final time, another song begins — Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” and relief sweeps through the diner, finally free from the Johnny Cash black hole.

 

•••

 

Andrew drives the next leg, because Fletcher announces that he’s going to try and nap. Andrew doesn’t mind — at least he can use the GPS without Fletcher freaking out. 

It takes a while for Andrew to decide if Fletcher is just ignoring him, or if he’s really asleep. He gets his answer when Fletcher starts to softly snore.

Andrew suddenly realizes that he could _leave._ He could take the next exit off the highway, leave Fletcher snoozing in the car in some parking lot, and walk a few blocks before calling the police on his phone and blame the whole thing on Fletcher.  They’d believe him. Easy-peasey. 

But he doesn’t.   He keeps on driving. He figures that if he didn’t leave before, when Fletcher tormented him over a drum kit and humiliated him on stages, why leave now?  Abandoning their partnership would feel like giving up, especially after the evolution it has gone through.  First on the basis of their shared obsession, then the union they’ve formed by bloodying their hands together.  He can’t leave after all of that.

For fifty-seven miles he wonders what that says about himself.

 

•••

 

Fletcher wakes up a little ways into West Virginia.  He blinks at the twilight and rubs his eyes before looking over to Andrew.

“You kept going.” He’s still slumped in his seat, the seatbelt rubbing against his neck in a way that looks uncomfortable.

Andrew shrugs. “You didn’t tell me when to stop.” Fletcher never does. 

They take the exit for a place called Lost Creek and stop at first hotel they come by (actually, the second — the first had looked like a home for meth heads and prostitutes). 

From memory, Andrew taps out a rhythm with his fingers on the counter while Fletcher pays for their room (booking it for three nights even though they aren’t going to stay that long). Fletcher keeps shooting him furtive glances.  Andrew can tell that it’s taking every fiber of his being to keep his cool in front of the desk clerk. 

Andrew starts kicking the desk as a stand in for a foot pedal, adding to his impromptu drum solo.

“Sir,” the clerk says in a clipped tone, “could you please stop?”

“Sorry,” Fletcher says as Andrew’s rhythm cuts off, “he’s not all _there_ , if you know what I mean.”

The lady behind the desk then gives Andrew a small, pity-filled smile.  It’s misplaced sympathy but Andrew takes it, anyway.

 

•••

 

As soon as Andrew hears the water running for the shower, he relaxes.

Finally, a respite from Fletcher. 

Andrew toes off his shoes and flops onto the double bed that’s closest to the window, stretching out on top of a comforter that has seen better days.  He’s tired and sore, his muscles tight from sitting in a car all day, and he has a headache that he blames on Fletcher but is probably caused by a multitude of things.

He digs the bag out his front pocket that he had been sure to take with him from his apartment, and plucks out two pills for how he feels.  He turns them over with his thumb, examining them before swallowing them, and chases them down with a root beer he had got from the vending machine outside their room.

Before, he had not dared to flaunt the drug thing in Fletcher’s presence.  That would be just _asking_ for trouble and he has enough of that already.  But now Fletcher has more significant things that he can be disappointed in him about, and he isn’t drumming, so, whatever. 

He carefully reseals the bag — vaguely taking note of how many pills he has left — and shoves it back in his pocket, then adjusts his pillow and leans back, the welcome effect of the pills already making him care less.  He needs this, who cares what Fletcher thinks. 

And fuck him, really.

Andrew is busy counting mildew stains on the ceiling when Fletcher comes out of the bathroom. It takes all of five seconds for Fletcher to figure it out what he did.

“Are you high?”

“Yep,” Andrew says, popping the _p_.  He turns his head to look at Fletcher, who is wearing a pair of green plaid pajama pants that hug his hips, wearing that and only that.  Andrew definitely doesn’t look at his stomach and chest, doesn’t examine him closely enough to see water droplets sitting on his collarbone.  Certainly not.  But if he did happen to look, he would be satisfied, because he finally got the answer to what the psycho looks like under those tight black tees. If he had looked, that is. 

He grins and returns his gaze to the ceiling.

Across the room, Fletcher sighs.  “Loony faggot.”

He’s looking away before Andrew can see how disappointed he looks.  Which is fine because Andrew expects it to come later — sometimes it takes a while for it to build up to a high enough intensity before Fletcher deals it out.  But by the time Andrew comes out of the bathroom (having forgone a shower, he only pees and washes his hands and brushes his teeth), the lights are already off and Fletcher is in the other bed and under the covers. 

It’s only then when Andrew is stumbling around in the dark that he realizes that in their rush he forgot to pack pajamas.  “Fuck it,” he mutters and he strips down to his boxer briefs, ridding himself of the same sweaty clothes he’s worn since he lugged a body into a New York alley almost twenty-four hours ago.

Oh, yeah, _that_ , Andrew thinks as he pulls the sheet under his chin. He had been feeling rather okay, but images pop back in his brain that have been hidden during the day. The difference of someone else’s blood on his hands compared to his own.  How he couldn’t look away during the last breath, too interested to see what would happen.  How he liked seeing Fletcher kill.

He thrashes his legs to free the blankets from their tucked-under-the-mattress oppression.

He guesses that Fletcher is thinking about the dead guy, too.  “What are you going to do about it?” he asks.

“I’ll think about later,” Andrew says.  “After all, tomorrow is another day.” 

Fletcher’s “You did not just quote _Gone With the Wind_ at me” is the last thing Andrew hears before he passes out.

 

•••

 

Andrew wakes up the next morning tangled in blankets and in an unfamiliar room.  He’s confused for a second, but then his eyes adjust and see Fletcher standing over him and the events of the previous day fade back into his memory.

“Good morning,” Andrew mumbles.

“It’s not a good morning,” Fletcher snaps, and Andrew has the urge to remark, _well someone got up on the wrong side of the bed_. “Get up,” Fletcher says, and the light streams in from the window, backlighting him and making his expression cloaked in shadow.  “Take a shower and get ready to go.”

Andrew turns away from him, rolling to his other side.  He feels awful; he’s starving, his head still hurts a little, and his lower back aches from the car ride.  Glancing at the digital clock on the bedside table he finds out that he slept for only six hours.  He wishes he could sleep for sixteen more. 

Fletcher yanks the covers off him, and Andrew shrieks and helplessly grabs at them, but Fletcher’s quicker. His barrier is gone and it’s _freezing_ in here, what does he have the temperature set for? and he curls up, wishing he had more on than just his underwear, because it’s kind of embarrassing and he feels his body breaking out in goose bumps from the chill.

“Now!” Fletcher yells. When Andrew continues to lie in bed, Fletcher slaps him hard on the thigh.  It stings, and when Andrew sits up and looks down at his leg, there’s a red imprint the shape of Fletcher’s open palm.

“What the fuck!”

Hands on his hips, Fletcher says, “Just because you don’t have to practice anymore doesn’t mean you can turn into Sleeping Beauty.”

Muttering curses at Fletcher, Andrew strides across the room barefoot to the bathroom.

 

•••

 

He supposes that he can forgive Fletcher for the blanket thing and maybe the slapping thing too, because when he gets out of the shower (admittedly refreshed) and dresses in clean but wrinkled clothes that he pulls from his bag, there’s coffee and a plate full of continental breakfast that Fletcher got from the motel lobby. 

As Andrew eats, Fletcher tells him the next part of the plan.  Phase one was to disappear inconspicuously, which they succeeded. Phase two is to disappear without a trace.

“Is there a phase three?” Andrew asks.  He pushes scrambled-too-hard eggs around on his plate. 

Fletcher crosses his arms. “I don’t know yet.”

“Huh.” Sounds promising. 

He figures that in another life, Fletcher could have been a spy, or something.  He’s telling Andrew that he cannot be Andrew Neiman anymore, drilling him on how he can’t stand out, and _you need to blend in you retarded oaf because our lives depend on it._

It seems that Fletcher is already dedicated to the task of his alternative character. His jazz aficionado attire is gone — he’s traded the black shirt and pants ensemble and for khakis and a sky-blue polo, and it looks like he’s about to reprimand someone for violating too many HOA regulations.  It’s fucking weird. 

“Whatever.” Andrew pushes his plate forward and mutters, “Whatever you say.”

“Good,” Fletcher says slowly, as if he was planning to say something else and had take the time to think of an alternative response.  “And it’ll have to make-do, because remember: this is all your fault.” 

Andrew wonders if Fletcher keeps repeating that in order to make him believe it.  If anything, Andrew is less convinced every time the bastard utters it.

 

•••

 

They park the rental car on the side of a quiet two-lane road a mile away from the motel. They leave their spare bags in the trunk and the keys in the ignition, and for embellishment they cut their forearms and smear some of their blood in the interior — it’s a convincing display, because they wouldn’t have gone without a struggle. 

And just like that, they start the beginnings of their disappearance.

With their bags slung over their shoulders, they walk into town.

“What do you think people will think happened to us?”  Andrew squints beside him at Fletcher, wishing he had sunglasses. Fletcher had said a lot of things about what they were going to do, but he didn’t say much about the fallout.

“I don’t fucking know. Do I look like a fortune teller and can predict the future?”  Fletcher holds out his arm, preventing Andrew from jaywalking across an intersection, even though there’s nobody on the road and they totally could have went ahead. “It just depends,” he says, this time serious. “You can’t foresee how people will behave.  There are so many factors.”

Andrew makes a _hmm_ noise. “I think the news story will be like this: overcome with obsession, you kidnapped your protégé, because you wanted him all yourself, because you’re a selfish bastard who’s never experienced true compassion.  The young, innocent protégé went along with you, because he’s been brainwashed by your awful psychosis.  Then you raped and murdered your protégé, finally overtaken by your violent impulses. You do it because your protégé is too pure, and do not want his innocence damaged by anything other than you.”

And Fletcher actually laughs, a loud _haha_. “You, innocent, what a riot,” he says.

It’s a couple blocks before Andrew realizes that Fletcher kind of did kidnap him — if telling someone _come with me if you want to live_ qualifies.

 

•••

 

They travel the main drag of Lost Creek, West Virginia by foot until they find a used car dealer. It doesn’t take long. 

The owner is more than glad to take the five hundred dollars in cash from Fletcher with no questions asked, and thirty minutes later they’re headed south on I-79 in a 1989 white Cutlass Ciera Oldsmobile.  It’s modest and perfect for blending in since there are thousands of the same model on the road. It’s not as bad as Andrew had thought it would be, especially after Fletcher ejects the ‘free’ copy of Depeche Mode’s _Violator_ out of the tape deck and unceremoniously tosses it into the back seat.

There’s no backing out now, Andrew thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A white '89 Cutlass Ciera was my first car.


	3. act naturally.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew gets jealous, and he does something about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so even though if you're still here you should know but: warning for murder. Violence. Whatever.
> 
> chapter title is from The Beatles' ["Act Naturally"](http://youtu.be/6r2MndpmzKQ)

Andrew leans against the car, stretching his legs.  Fletcher is filling up the car with gas, glaring at the display screen as the price rises. Or that’s what Andrew assumes has him so grouchy; from this angle the sunshine makes a glare and he can’t see what the digital readout says.

Andrew is about to remark that they should start siphoning gasoline when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket.  Without thinking, he takes it out and reads the notification.

“It’s Trish,” Andrew says, and then adds, “from the band,” as clarification because of Fletcher gives him a puzzled  _So?_ expression. “She’s asking where are we because weren’t we supposed to have a rehearsal today and we haven’t shown up yet?”

The gas pump clicks off, indicating the task is full.  “You didn’t respond, did you?” Fletcher asks.

“No.” Andrew isn’t an idiot, he remembers Fletcher’s speech about them disappearing.  “Why does everyone always assume I know where you are?”

“Because you’re always hovering around me like a big dumb raincloud.”  Fletcher shuts the fuel door, and holds out his hand. “Let me see.”

Andrew places his phone in Fletcher’s palm.  Fletcher looks at it for a moment before tossing it in the garbage can.

“Excuse you!” 

He ignores Andrew’s protests.  “We could be tracked,” he says, tossing his phone in the trash, too.  “You can’t contact anyone anyway.”

In addition to their phones, Fletcher throws their wallets away because it’s too risky to chance getting caught with identification on them.  Andrew watches as Fletcher pockets the cash and then discards the remaining item that proves who they are.

By the way that Fletcher’s looking at him, sardonic yet stern, Andrew knows that he’s expecting him to get mad, maybe yell about how unfair it is.  It’s been a couple hours and a hundred miles or so since they’ve last had an argument.  But Andrew doesn’t react; instead he gives a lively, “I know,” and circles around to the passenger side, gets in and digs into the bag of snacks he purchased from the store.

If anything, he finds that being truly off the grid feels more like being free of burdens than it does a constriction.

 

•••

 

They’re almost to Virginia when Fletcher decides to skip it all together and heads toward Tennessee. When Andrew asks why the change in direction, he isn’t forthcoming.

“Do you have somewhere you need to be?”

Andrew rolls his eyes. “I’m just curious where Humbert Humbert is dragging me across country.”

Fletcher huffs next to him. “Even if you act like a prepubescent girl and have daddy issues, you aren’t Lolita.” 

Andrew spends the next twenty miles explaining why the Jeremy Irons version of  _Lolita_ is better than the Kubrick one.

“Andrew?” 

“It’s slander, I know,” Andrew says.  “But the tone is all wrong and—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

 

•••

 

Stupid as it sounds, the meaningless conversations on their Not A Road Trip have made Andrew realize something: Fletcher doesn’t find him a necessity anymore. 

When he really realizes it is when they’re in well into the Bible Belt and are in what must be the only restaurant in Kentucky that plays live jazz in a plethora of country-western. 

It hurts, and is extremely self-indulgent.  He knows that’s why Fletcher did it. 

Fletcher points to the stage. “Too bad that’s not you.” 

The guy who’s clanking out a tune on the piano can’t be too much older than Andrew, even though he has messy dark hair to match his.  Andrew is about to tell Fletcher that that could never be him, because he doesn’t know much about the keys except how to find middle C, but if he did play the piano he would be a lot better than that kid up there, but he stops mid-thought because he realizes that Fletcher is just riling him up.

Andrew’s face must not be hiding his put-on indifference too well, because Fletcher smugly smiles behind his drink and Andrew imagines the invisible tally board get another point on Fletcher’s side.

Fletcher leaves Andrew fuming into his BLT as he goes up and chats with musician over the piano after the song is over.  Andrew can hear Fletcher’s fake laugh, the one he uses to disguise himself and appear less menacing. The sad thing is that it works, and the pianist is buying it, but Andrew can’t blame him — Fletcher’s adoration is sublime.

Yeah, he has a problem, Andrew realizes, and something like jealousy flares in his stomach.

On many occasions, Fletcher has told Andrew that the only thing interesting about him is his skill for the drums (Andrew thinks back to that night, after Carnegie and  _Caravan_ , how Fletcher set him down backstage and told him how his future was going to be). He knows that his appeal to Fletcher only extends to how useful he is to his pursuit for the perfect musician, his Charlie Parker.

But now that future is gone. He’s wavered from the path of Greatness, so to say.  He’s no longer the Andrew Neiman that would be known as the best drummer who ever walked the Earth, but instead is the one who could be wanted for murder.  Or worse, he’s the Andrew Neiman who will fade into obscurity, completely.

And that’s what scares him.

Why would Fletcher keep him around if he serves no purpose?  If he can’t drum, he’s the  _nothing_  Fletcher had always warned him that he would be.  Useless. He worries that Fletcher will dump him the first chance he gets.  Or maybe Fletcher will turn him in.  Maybe Fletcher has it planned already, and is just waiting to see how long he can drag out tormenting him.  Maybe that’s ‘phase three’ of Fletcher’s plan.  Or maybe Fletcher will kill him himself. 

He doesn’t like the idea that he serves no purpose to Fletcher, because as fucked up as it is, he still finds himself dependent on him. 

Andrew decides has to change that.

 

•••

 

When Fletcher comes back to the table, Andrew acts as if everything is perfectly okay. Fletcher pauses, as if he were expecting Andrew to be upset, but a moment later he shakes it off and starts talking about something he did two or fifteen years ago, who knows which, it’s all ancient history now.

Andrew pretends to listen. He’s actually keeping an eye on the novice pianist, and in the middle of Fletcher’s exposition Andrew excuses himself to the restroom when the guy leaves the stage.

Andrew follows the pianist through a storage room and a door that exits to an alley behind the restaurant that’s empty save for them.  When the door slams shut, the pianist turns around, startled. 

“Oh, I didn’t see you,” he says in a cheerful Kentuckian accent, and then he lights up with a smile as there’s recognition.  “Weren’t you with that music teacher?”

“Yeah,” Andrew says, taking a step forward.  Then he says, “Sorry.”

They say that the first kill is the hardest, but the first one was easy, so logic follows that the next would be even easier.  It’s almost too easy, Andrew thinks in a rush, as he reaches forward and grabs the other guy roughly, watching as confusion blossoms on his face.  It’s  _great_ , Andrew realizes, as he overtakes him and forces him face down onto the concrete and there’s a delightful  _crunch_ of a nose breaking.

The young musician, who both Andrew could have been and never could have been, struggles. He begs for his freedom through tears and blood.

“Stop it,” Andrew says. “ _Shh.”_

Andrew pins him down with a knee on his back, and he wraps his hands around his neck and presses  _hard_ , squeezing until he can feel the thud of each heartbeat against his fingertips.  He counts them as they slow, savoring each one, until they stop and there’s nothing at all.

The whole thing takes less than a minute — it’s that simple.  Honestly, Andrew is a little disappointed.

 

•••

 

The outside of back door is locked, so he walks around to the front entrance. He flings the door open and strides over to Fletcher, nonchalant.

Fletcher watches him as he crosses the room, mouth open in ready verbal abuse. But.  Something halts it and a disquiet expression covers his face instead. Andrew absolutely relishes in it.

“What have you done?” 

Andrew smiles. “I’ll show you.”  _Try to say I’m not interesting now_ , he thinks.

 

•••

 

Fletcher does not share Andrew’s thrill. 

“Andrew,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose, “tell me this wasn’t some sick cry for attention from me.”

“What? No!”  Andrew scoffs.  The admission is not entirely true, but that’s okay, Fletcher isn’t being honest either. He’s obviously intrigued. Andrew won’t forget how Fletcher had staggered back in shock at the sight of the lifeless body, but then kneeled down next it, hands on the asphalt so he could get closer to examine the bruising around the neck in the dim streetlight. 

“Then why did you do it?” Fletcher asks.

Andrew shrugs. He thinks of a lot of reasons, but they aren’t as clear as they were ten minutes ago.  He brings his hands in front of his face and flexes them. They’re sore, but not as sore when he’s been practicing for hours on end.  He kind of misses that pain.

They leave the dead pianist where he lies, and speed off in their car, away from the scene of the crime. 

“Hey, it’s not a total loss,” Andrew says.  He fans the two hundred dollars he had taken from the victim, that he probably earned under the table for playing a session at the restaurant.  “You were worried since the cash we had with us was going to running out.”

“Oh, my mistake. I didn’t know I should be  _thanking you_  for murdering more people. I didn’t know it would make our situation better!”  Fletcher keeps glancing in the rearview mirror, as if he’s expecting a squad of police cars to be chasing them in pursuit.  “How considerate of you.”

“You know what I mean, damn.”  Fine, if he wants to be that way, Andrew thinks as his he pockets the money.  Reaching in his pocket, his fingers brush against his baggie of pills.  He freezes, and casts a sidelong glance to Fletcher on the other side of the car. 

He weighs his options for a moment — he’s itching for a fix and he really really wants to,  _needs_  to, his head is a cluttered cacophony and he feels the beginnings of that familiar twinge in his chest that makes him gasp for air.

He figures that the worst that could happen would be for Fletcher to scowl in disapproval, so he takes out his bag and plucks three pills from the rest, swallowing them dry. He’s sure to make a show of it so Fletcher will notice.

And ah, there’s that scowl of disapproval.  It’s actually gratifying when Andrew earns it over something he intended.

“You’ve officially lost it,” Fletcher says.  “Certifiable nutcase.  You’ve flown over the cuckoo’s nest.  Flown way past it and into crazy murder town.”

 _He isn’t wrong_ , Andrew thinks, and he says, “You aren’t the exemplar of sanity, either.”  Fletcher has been crazy a lot longer than he has, perfecting it over the years by way of inflicting his wretchedness on conservatory students who weren’t worth his time. Andrew’s developed quickly, like a fuse caught fire.  It isn’t hard to guess who ignited it.

Perhaps it’s the fact that they’ve been on the road for two days and he’s tired, but Fletcher just sighs and agrees.  “This is all very the pot calling the kettle black.”  He bites his bottom lip, then shrugs.  “Sanity is overrated.”

Fletcher’s admission of their parallel destruction is like music to Andrew’s ears. He throws his head back against the headrest and grins — he’s got him hooked again, a reminder that they  _understand each other_.

He didn’t realize that he had been saying the last part out loud until Fletcher repeats it. “We understand each other,” Fletcher says with his voice an octave up, mocking him.  “For fuck’s sake Andrew, could you get any gayer?”

“I could give you a blow job while you drive.”  Andrew blames his boldness on the pills. 

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Fletcher swerves a little before righting the car again and shooting a look to Andrew.  “What the fuck?”

Andrew just laughs, and pulls his legs into the seat.  “Hey, you’re the one who asked.”

Fletcher diverts his attention back to the road and mutters under his breath.  “Fuckin’ faggot junky.”

There’s a part of Andrew that wonders what Fletcher would do if he slinked across the seat and put his mouth on him.  It’d be an experiment, that’s for sure.  But he doesn’t explore it — undoing his seatbelt seems too much of a hassle, and he doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

 

•••

 

Andrew falls asleep at some point, because later he jerks awake with his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window, and he can’t remember how he got from point A to point B.

It takes him a moment to realize that the car isn’t moving.  His gaze shifts from the spotted window to outside, seeing that they’re parked at a rest stop.  A sign outside reads  _Tennessee Welcome Center_  and there’s a family gathered around a picnic table, and beyond that there’s endless trees. 

He slept off his high, which is a bummer, but he feels a lot better after resting. It’s still dark outside but he has no idea what time it is, he doesn’t have that fine-tuned skill of tapping into his circadian clock.  He  _would_  check his phone for the time if some madman didn’t toss his in the trash three states back. 

He sits up, yawns, and looks next to him.

Fletcher is sleeping with the seat reclined back, his arms crossed in front of him, and the stolen gun in his lap.  It’s…a beguiling sight. 

“Hey, Fletcher,” Andrew says, first softly then raising his voice.  “Wake up.”

Eyes still closed, Fletcher says, “Go back to sleep, Andrew.”

“What time is it?”

Fletcher heaves a sigh, but puts his arm out, showing Andrew the watch on his wrist. “But it’s wrong,” Fletcher mumbles, “passed through a time zone a while back.” 

The watch reads 5:34 a.m., but it’s really 4:34 a.m., Andrew subtracting an hour to compensate for traveling out of the Eastern Time zone.  Time doesn’t really matter when he has nothing to do and nowhere to be, but it’s comforting knowledge nonetheless.

He’s about to let Fletcher know what time it is, but Fletcher has already curled his arm back to himself and the slow steady rise and fall of his chest signals that he has drifted back to sleep.  Fletcher’s hushed sleeping sounds are stifling in enclosed space and Andrew is a somewhat wired, so he slips out of the car, gently closing the door behind him.  He stands outside for a moment, looking through the window to see if Fletcher stirs but no, Fletcher remains still.

It registers with Andrew that this is another opportunity to run away from Fletcher, but he dismisses it just as quickly as he thinks of it, because it isn’t really an option.

Andrew finds ways to waste his time.  He goes in the restroom, takes a piss, washes his hands.  For good measure, he washes his face and his arms up to his elbows in the sink. He takes a few pills, the ones that he normally takes before a show or when he stays up all night and make his nerves blaze with energy.  Then he waits for the dad from the picnic table to go before he locks himself in a stall and masturbates to no image in particular in his mind. After that, he stands outside browsing through the pamphlets advertising tourist attractions in the Volunteer State.

Other times when sleep would evade him, he would find solace in his drum kit, striking out quick tempos until he was soothed enough to drop off into sleep. Like some kind of lullaby.

But his drum kit is nine hundred miles away, and with the way things are going he’ll probably never see it again. He tries not to think of that though, as he picks at a well-formed callus that’s on the web between his thumb and forefinger. 

He waits until daylight starts to trickle in over the horizon to go back to the car. He slides into the passenger seat and studies Fletcher’s prone slumbering form, then slams the door hard.

Fletcher jolts awake, his hand flying to the gun in his lap.  When he sees Andrew staring blankly at him, he relaxes back into the seat. “I could have shot you,” he says.

Andrew shrugs. “Nah, you wouldn’t have wasted the bullet.”

Fletcher lets out a long exhale, and rubs his face.  He hasn’t shaved since they left New York and stubble lines his jaw like flecks of salt and pepper.

Andrew twists in his seat, facing Fletcher.  “I have an idea,” Andrew says excitedly.  He’s proud, he thought of it when he was waiting around in the pre-dawn hours. Not only do the pills key him up, but they also gift him with an unwavering focus.

“Not. Interested.”

Andrew continues anyway. “If we have to be on the run, there’s a way to make certain that everyone thinks we’re dead. And then it wouldn’t worry about getting caught.”

Curious, Fletcher blearily looks next to him.  “Do share.”

“Okay, so,” Andrew begins, getting his thoughts straight.  “That pianist in Kentucky, he kind of looked like me, right? I mean we’re both around the same age and build, same hair color.”

“How astute. I’m flabbergasted by your skills of observation.  A regular Sherlock Holmes!”

“Give me a fucking moment, alright?”  Andrew runs a hand though his hair.  “What if there was a way to make look like his death and my disappearance were connected? What if there were more deaths of young, white, dark-haired males?  And then what if there were deaths of men who resembled you — you know, older bald dudes — so then it’s assumed that you were murdered as well? With both killings happening at the same time, the conclusion would be that we were victims. And then, ta-da, our disappearance would be explained.”

Fletcher is silent for a long time.  When he finally does speak, his voice is mild and apathetic, as if he were discussing the weather and not a formulated murder plot.  “You want to invent a serial killer that targets people who fit our profile?”

“Well, yeah,” Andrew says. “Except it would be us, uh, killing them.”

“I gathered that part of your plan.”

Andrew nods, pleased that Fletcher had been on the same track as him.  As fucked up as it is, it’s reassuring that they have the same thought pattern, that he isn’t alone.  “And then we could take their money.  Since they won’t be using it anyway, and we’ll need it." 

The weight of Fletcher’s stare is cold and steely.  It’s hard to return, but Andrew doesn’t dare look away.

“You’ve got it all worked out, don’t you?” Fletcher asks.  It’s almost snide in tone.  Andrew wonders if it’s because he’s mad he didn’t think of the idea first.

Smug, Andrew settles into his seat, hand brushing against the burgundy interior. “Well, one of us had to do something.” There’s an empty beat, then he says, “It could be Phase Three.”

Andrew wasn’t exactly fishing for it but he’s glad when it happens, he’s glad when Fletcher reaches across the seat and slaps him in the face.  The impact of it burns hotly, and when he turns his face back, Fletcher is  _close_ , his hand poised in the air, ready to hit him again.  It’s a throw back to their beginnings.  Intimate.

“Go on,” Andrew says. He does his best to look deranged and leans forward,  _just so_ , until his cheek rests against Fletcher’s hand.  “Do it.”

For a moment, Andrew believes that Fletcher will hit him again.  Instead of tensing up how someone who thinks they’re about to slapped should, his body relaxes, and something like anticipation singes in his stomach.

But Fletcher doesn’t hit him.  But what he does do though is tilt his head and rub his thumb against Andrew’s cheek, ever so gently. Considerate.  Testing. 

“You’re a crazy motherfucker,” Fletcher says, his voice a throaty growl. 

Andrew licks his lips. “I…,” he begins, but never finishes, because Fletcher lets his hand falls from his face and gets out the car without a word, and what’s the point saying anything if he isn’t there to hear him. 

As Andrew watches Fletcher’s retreating form stomp off towards the rest area, he touches his face. He smiles, reveling in the slight soreness of his cheek. 

It’s interesting.

 

•••

 

They’re on the road again — Fletcher driving and Andrew riding shotgun — neither saying anything about Andrew’s proposed plan.  Or about Fletcher hitting him, or about what happened after. They just drive, Fletcher with his eyes forward on the road and Andrew navigating and trying to make sense of the large paper map.

That is, until they’re in a Rite Aid parking lot, finishing off their fast food lunch (Fletcher is appalled). Chik-fil-a wrappers litter the floor, and the windows are rolled down, letting in the balmy breeze.

“Okay,” Fletcher says.

Andrew shoves a waffle fry in his mouth.  “Okay, what?” 

“This serial killer fantasy your fucked-up mind created,” Fletcher says, and then shakes his head and sighs, as if he can’t believe what he’s saying.  “I’m in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for continuing to read! you all are the best <3


	4. for what it's worth.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fletcher gives conditions; they take a side trip; hair; Florida.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: descriptions of violence, risky driving (?)
> 
> this chapter title brought to you by Buffalo Springfield's [For What it's Worth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gp5JCrSXkJY).

Andrew knew Fletcher could not resist.  It is too tempting to hold off; once you’ve taken a life, it’s only a compulsion to do it again. Something secret tapped into. Powerful.  Andrew fell prey to it first — he is susceptible to demonic forces — but he knew Fletcher would too, eventually, because they’re the same, both of their souls are dark and twisted and demanding of bloodshed. And Terence Fletcher is too much of a self-obsessed, power-hungry maniac to not seize that opportunity to appease that awfulness within him.  He’s been trying to slowly kill people for a long time, so this is a natural extension.

Fletcher drives them to a RV park that’s not far from the middle of nowhere.  It’s kind of grungy and Andrew is pretty sure that there are at least three meth labs there.  He looks over to Fletcher, and says (with a whine, if he’s honest with himself), “Really?”

Backing the car into a parking spot along the fence, Fletcher shifts the gear into park and turns off the ignition.  “Don’t be such a nice-nasty little bitch.  I’ve seen you eat food that’s fallen on the floor.”

Andrew rolls his eyes; it’s an unfair comparison because the Reese’s cup had been in the floorboard for only two seconds, tops.  Here in RV trailer world it looks like he could contract a STD just from inhaling the air.

“This _thing_ ,” Fletcher says, gesturing to the space between them, “can’t be haphazard.  You can’t be a slob about this, like everything else you do.”

The initial reaction for Andrew is to object, say that he has done an okay job so far and he’s more practiced in it because he’s killed more than him, but he remembers that’s something normal people don’t brag about.

“Then how should we be doing it?” Andrew asks.

And god, it’s so easy to appease Fletcher.  Let him know you want his advice and he’ll never shut up.

“It’s best if there’s no connections,” Fletcher says as he reaches behind him and grabs his bag from the backseat.  “Random murders are the hardest to solve.  Ones without intrinsic motivation.”  He unzips the bag, rummages through it.  “You know most murder victims are killed by someone they know?  And that’s why they get caught.”

“Just how much _CSI_ have you watched in your lifetime?” Andrew asks.  When Fletcher gives him no more than an indignant grunt, he speaks again, “We won’t know any of these people.  That’s the whole point.”

Fletcher never really responds about that.

He finally finds what he was looking for in his bag — his straight razor, of which has been out of commission since they began their journey.  He holds it delicately as he unfolds the blade from the handle, and cradles it in his palm.

“We have to be careful,” Fletcher says.  He twists his wrist, the silver of the razor catching the sun and reflecting a beam a light in the car. “Neat.”

Andrew almost calls him a psycho.  He had planned to, and he constructs the perfect insult but he takes too long and Fletcher has moved on from the moment and is pointing through the window.

“How about him?” Fletcher asks, and Andrew’s gaze moves from the blade in the other’s hand to where he’s indicating.

Right away Andrew knows who Fletcher’s target is.  Fiddling in the garden next to an RV: male, trim body, middle aged, bald.  From a distance, he could be Fletcher, apart from the cowboy boots and ridiculous plaid shirt.

“Perfect,” Andrew says.

 

•••

 

Luring the guy is not a problem.  They introduce themselves as a friendly uncle and nephew who are displaced, and Fletcher’s quicksilver tongue does the rest. 

“Always happy to help fellow travelers in need,” the man says as he lets them into his RV. He’s too trusting in the way that someone who secludes themselves forget that there are people who will take advantage of their over-trusting nature.

 _Too bad for him_ , Andrew thinks as he closes the door behind them. He looks around the tiny home on wheels and sees what Fletcher sees: single, no family, nomad. A nobody that no one will care about if they turn up dead.  A perfect candidate for Fletcher’s “neat” method. 

Fletcher is efficient and wastes no time doing what they came there to do.  Within two steps he’s to the wanna-be cowboy and the razor is out of his pocket and he flicks it open with a practiced motion. Andrew stands transfixed, as if he were the one handling the blade himself, and watches as Fletcher slices the man’s throat open in a single, quick stroke.  Blood spills so easily.  The man — whose misfortune is that he happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time — clutches at his throat, blood gurgling at the gash, stumbles backwards into the cabinet and slides down, and looks so so confused, a _why is this happening to me?_   He dies wearing that face. 

Andrew lets out a shaky breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” he whispers.  On the wall, there’s a splatter of blood that was flung from the blade. He sees Fletcher scrutinizing it. “Doesn’t it?” he repeats.

Fletcher turns on the kitchenette sink with a dirty washcloth, and sticks the razor under the water. Evidence washes down the drain. “Wipe your fingerprints off doorknob,” he tells Andrew.  He seems very…focused.  Methodological. 

There’s blood splattered on Fletcher’s face.  Andrew feels a little nauseous when he can’t decide if he hates it, or likes it a little too much.

He steps to the sink, him next to Fletcher, and Fletcher next to the second victim in their plan.

“What?” Fletcher snaps, and Andrew grabs another dishcloth and puts under the water, and then reaches it up towards Fletcher’s face. 

“You’ve got…right here,” Andrew says, unable to pronounce the word _blood_ but he wipes it off Fletcher’s face, and when it’s gone he realizes how much he liked it there.

 

•••

 

Not only do they get a successful kill but it turns out that lonely RV guy was loaded, and Andrew and Fletcher now have three thousand and fifty-two dollars in cash they didn’t have before.

The whole experience leaves them dizzy with something that both acknowledge but neither will give voice to. Fletcher drives them down the highway as fast as the Oldsmobile will go, one arm slumped on the wheel and the other stretched out along the tops of the seats.  Andrew sits sprawled out in the passenger seat without a seatbelt, familiar with the feeling that’s coiling in his chest.  It’s the like rush of a high, or a perfect ten-minute solo.

Fletcher tells Andrew they’re going somewhere, which is kind of ridiculous because now that’s all they do, constantly going.  But Andrew still asks, “Where?  Where?” with the enthusiasm of an excited puppy. 

“It’s a surprise,” Fletcher says.

 

•••

 

They arrive at Graceland an hour later.  Andrew grumbles about it, “You’ve got to be kidding,” his purist jazz heart complaining.

“Did anybody ever tell you you’re an ungrateful shit?” Fletcher asks.  _Yeah, you,_ Andrew thinks, but he doesn’t say it and that’s it, matter dropped.

Later, Andrew is glad he went along with it, because it’s actually kind of nice. As they tour Elvis’ home they’re able to relax because it’s the first thing in two and a half days that isn’t strictly tied to escaping or surviving.  And it feels _safe,_ that nobody could ever know them, as they are anachronisms, jazz hotshots in the home of the father of rock and roll. 

(There is one incident though: in a room a drum set sits in the corner with a display light shining on it. Before Andrew can take a step towards it Fletcher grabs his arm and jerks him back.  “No,” Fletcher whispers in his ear and Andrew has to laugh — of course he knew he’d be drawn to it like a moth to a flame.)

“What do you think?” Andrew asks.  He’s donned a pair of oversized aviator sunglasses that the gift shop sells, pulls a pout and juts out his hips, reminiscent of the King.

“Never do that again,” Fletcher says, and rubs at his forehead as if he’s absolutely humiliated by Andrew.

Fletcher ends up buying the sunglasses for Andrew anyway.

“It’s only so you’ll stop crying about how the sun is melting your retinas,” Fletcher says, back behind the wheel and headed towards destination: somewhere. 

Behind the shades (which he _is_ happy with because his eyes are sensitive to light, especially with his pills, thankyouverymuch), Andrew’s mouth pulls up into a grin.  It kind of falters for a second when he realizes he’s kind of happy _,_ but then eh, fuck it.

 

•••

 

They get the hell out of Tennessee, and they’re well into Mississippi when they stop at a drugstore. 

Andrew follows Fletcher around the brightly lit store, worried if he were to fall back that Fletcher might leave him there.  Abandoned, like a mother leaving their burden of a child.

In the cart, Fletcher throws in various items: two pairs of gloves, sunscreen, ibuprofen, a box of permanent auburn hair dye.

“I think you need a little bit more hair to dye it,” Andrew says, eyeing the gray stubble that’s formed at the base of Fletcher’s neck and around his ears.

“It’s for you,” Fletcher says, stern. He’s serious about their _disguises_ ; when in public he’s started wearing his reading glasses in the hopes that his cold blue eyes are less noticeable.

“Oh my God, give me a break, I—”

“And I don’t want to hear any bitching about it.  It’s either this or shaving your head.” 

Andrew immediately silences. The option was simple. But still, ugh.

He must not hide his distaste too well because Fletcher laughs and ruffles Andrew’s hair playfully, before gripping a handful and tugging hard.

“Concerned you won’t look as cute to the boys anymore?” he says.

Andrew shoves at his arm, and distances himself with a few steps.  “No!  Christ. Fuck you.”

 

•••

 

After a dinner of delivery pizza in a seedy motel (Fletcher bitching the whole time that he’s going to make him gain weight), Fletcher orders Andrew to the bathroom to shave (“You look like a twinky pedophile with that pathetic facial hair,” Fletcher says) and to change his hair.

In the other room Fletcher watches the news while Andrew stands in front of the mirror with a towel around his neck.  There’s no ventilation in the small room and the dye smells awful (Andrew later reads that it has _bleach_ in it, his nose hair is probably burned away), and he realizes that he probably shouldn’t have had those pills before attempting it because this is a task that shouldn’t be done while stoned.

He tosses the box to the side and does the best he can with the squirt bottle that came with the kit and spreads it around his hair with the plastic gloves that also were included.

After it sits for twenty minutes he rinses it out like the instructions suggest, washing his hair in the sink.  He towels at it, and looks in the mirror — while wet it doesn’t look too different, so he dries it with the hair dyer attached to the wall and, well.  It’s a change in appearance, that’s for sure.

He runs his hands through his hair.  The majority of his hair is now a dark vivid red, darker than Ryan-Connolly-red.  It’s more red in some places than others, and some not at all where he didn’t get the dye, so the end result looks like a mix of dark red with random streaks of his natural brown. 

Andrew shrugs. It kind of looks cool. 

There’s spots of red dotting the counter and sink so he cleans up because he knows Fletcher will have an temper tantrum if he leaves it messy (something he learned before this trip, he remembers back to a few months ago when he was at Fletcher’s apartment and he left a dirty plate in the sink and Fletcher freaked the fuck out). As he wipes it away, he smirks, thinking of how it resembles blood.

He flings open the bathroom door.  It slams against the doorstopper with a dulled thud. 

Fletcher looks over. 

“You look like a drunk leprechaun,” he says.  He doesn’t try to hide his amusement.

Andrew grumbles and flops down on one of the beds because Fletcher took the only chair in the too-small room.  He gestures to the TV. “Anything interesting?” 

“They found the body,” Fletcher says. His voice quavers, a sound of someone desperately trying to muzzle their excitement but it bites at their vocal cords anyway, the electricity of it forcing its way out and sheer delight escaping.

“Which one?” The fact that Andrew has to ask for differentiation is enough to make him pause, for a moment. 

“The Kentucky kid.” Fletcher steeples his fingers together. “No mention of the one in Tennessee, or the two in New York.” 

Oh, yeah. Andrew had almost forgot about the two drug dealers that started this whole thing.  They aren’t a part of their plot, unimportant. 

“Any leads?” Andrew asks.

“Nope.”

“Any news about us?” 

“No.”

 

•••

 

Feeling lucky, they finish off two more targets before leaving Mississippi.  A drunken old man outside a bar (throat slit and blood pouring onto the parking lot, Andrew yielding the razor this time while Fletcher watches). A young hitchhiker wanting to get to the coast (Fletcher ties the kid up and drowns him in a pond). 

They keep track of their kills — little black stars made with pen on the large paper map that Fletcher still insists on using, denoting where they occurred.

Like with everything else, Andrew finds out that practice makes perfect.  And like everything else that he enjoys, like drumming and drugs and getting attention, the more he has the more he wants. 

He’s aware that it’s all probably an excuse for some kind of immense self-destruction. What else can it mean when you enjoy killing someone who is a representation of yourself?  (Although, it doesn’t take a lot of guessing to know what it means to kill the substitutes of the other.) 

Andrew is troubled by how much it doesn’t bother him.  He knows it should, knows he should be _horrified._ He was brought up right; Jim Neiman did well by him, he did his best.  But unfortunately his best didn’t account for Fletcher.  _I was fine until he destroyed me_ , Andrew thinks, a common excuse to all his problems on since he met Fletcher. 

But then he reconsiders. Perhaps he was always meant to be this way.  Maybe this darkness was something dormant and he could have gone through his entire life with it untapped if it had not been triggered.  Because at some point along the way he lost his mind (whether it be a few days ago or a year ago at Dunellen or even before then, he doesn’t know).

But at least Fletcher shares this predilection with him.  _Folie à deux_ , he remembers from French.  A madness shared by two.

 

•••

 

The south kind of sucks because it’s hot as hell, and allergies Andrew never had before start to bother him.  His eyes and nose itch and drive him crazy, and he rubs his nose and sneezes until Fletcher calls him gross and steals some over-the-counter allergy medicine for him.

“I can’t help it,” Andrew whines, and Fletcher counters with, “You could, if you really concentrated.”

Leave it to Fletcher to expect him to be in control of his sinuses.

For days they travel with no preset route.  One of them will pick an interesting sounding city and go there, taking a victim in their scheme when it feels right, or when they’re out of money (people are not careful when flaunting money in public, it makes them easy targets).

They purposely avoid the direction of Louisiana, because they both know that they would not be able to stay away from New Orleans (and the jazz that's there).

 

•••

 

It’s been eight days since they left.  Two important things happen.

First: their body count is starting to add up, and finally the authorities put it together that all the deaths might be connected somehow.  Took them long enough, the idiots.

Second: there’s a missing persons case for Terence Fletcher and Andrew Neiman.  The news doesn’t outright implicate Fletcher, but they don’t do him any favors.  They don’t even consider the fact they could be included as victims in the string of murders happening across multiple states.

To keep informed, Fletcher gets a pay-as-you-go phone.  Andrew is thrilled to have something to occupy his time other than Fletcher and the scenery of endless highways.

Feet on the dashboard, Andrew scrolls on the internet on shitty 3G service.  “There’s a Facebook page for me,” he says. “’Help Find Andrew Neiman.’” He shows the screen to Fletcher.

Fletcher looks like he’s about to have a coronary.  “Fucking imbecile! Why did you go on there, now there’s activity on your—”

“Calm down. It’s an open group.” Fletcher blinks at him, obviously not understanding.  Andrew elaborates, “It’s a public page.  Anyone can look at it, you don’t have to be signed in.”  

Crisis averted, Fletcher deescalates. Instead of being scared or rattled by how quickly he can blow up, Andrew just finds it amusing.

“I know what to do,” Andrew says.  “I wouldn’t do something to risk this.”  Not that he really knows what _this_ is.

“Then what’s on the page?” Fletcher asks.

Andrew shrugs. “Mostly stuff about my last known whereabouts and people posting stuff about me, acting like they care about me when they never gave a shit about me when I was actually around. They’re calling it _tragic_ , I had such a bright future, what a waste, blah blah.”

“They have _that_ spot-on,” Fletcher says.  He turns on the blinker and changes lanes. “You were really something. Could have had it all, but no. You thought that being a psychopath would be a more lucrative career.”

It’s one of the first times Fletcher has been that complimentary about his talents as a musician. What he would have done to hear that a couple weeks ago when it meant more.

“Fuck you.” Andrew slumps in the seat and considers climbing into the backseat to put as much distance between them as possible.

He scrolls through the Facebook page dedicated to him.  There are comments from Fletcher’s band, people from Shaffer’s studio band, from his family (his cousins capitalizing on the situation, of course). His dad responds to most of the comments, and a mix of fondness and sorrow flutter in his heart.

 

•••

 

If he’s honest, the absence of drumming in his life is slowly killing him.  Jazz and the drums had became such a substantial part of this life (the _biggest_ part of his life), for it to be gone is like one of his vital organs has been ripped out and he’s surviving only by sheer will.

Most days, when they’re the road and he’s high and they’re slaughtering, the pain of missing it marginally dulls, but it never really goes away.  It’s always there, a violent thrashing in his being that demands and that drugs and blood won’t appease.  It has to be his blood that’s shed, a sacrifice.

When they stop at hotels (times when they don’t end up sleeping in the car), Andrew sets out his practice pads on the bed, and plays.  It’s a poor substitute, but it becomes a lifeline. 

The first time he does it, Fletcher is dubious.  “I don’t know why you’re bothering.  You’ll never preform again.”

It only spurs him further, and he plays until his arms ache and one of his blisters reopens and neighbors complain about the noise.

Later, Andrew realizes that was probably Fletcher’s intention.

It becomes a routine. He plays, and Fletcher does push-ups and crunches (but not before laying a towel on the disgusting floor). 

What Andrew likes most about their revised partnership is that they are on more equal footing; they’re both on the run, they’re both unhinged, they’re both murders, each feeding off the other’s insanity — an inextricable self-serving feedback loop. Sure, Fletcher is still a dick to him, but it’s nothing that he can’t handle.  He’s been through worse with him, and he really doesn’t have anything to lose, after all. 

Now, they aren’t so much teacher-mentor as they are enabler-enabler.

It makes Andrew sick when he realizes that he misses that aspect of their relationship. _There must really be something wrong with me,_ he thinks, to be so dependent on that carefully crafted savage treatment.  He supposes he yearns for it so badly because Fletcher conditioned him to be that way.

Fletcher learns this secret about him — Andrew notices him noticing it.  So Fletcher gives it.  Andrew would say that Fletcher is indulging him, but he knows that Fletcher wants it, too. Any seemingly kind act from him could be nothing less than self-serving altruism.

“No!” Fletcher throttles towards him, gets in his face.  “Have you lost your basic technique along with your goddamned mind?”

Andrew doesn’t respond; he just keeps drumming.

Fletcher lets out a frustrated growl, gets behind Andrew and reaches around and grabs his wrists, pressing into sore tendons.  “Like _this_ ,” he says, forcing Andrew’s hands down in strokes that hurt.

Andrew isn’t really doing anything different but he obediently acquiesces to Fletcher’s touch — the weight of him against his back, his arms wrapped tight around him, his hot breath in his ear, the scratchiness of his scruff against his neck. It feels like Fletcher will consume him entirely. 

It’s times like these that he wonders what it would’ve been like to have been strictly his jazz apprentice for years on end.  He realizes that if it weren’t like this, he wouldn’t have wanted it (but he wouldn’t have been able to miss what he never had).  Fletcher might be taking advantage, but Andrew also has the bastard right where he wants him — he's chasing after him, too. 

He _likes_ it.  Andrew figures that this particular acknowledgement should not make his blood run hot and his stomach coil tightly, that he should have more than a shred of utter revulsion within him, but he can’t bring him himself to feel anything more than plain gratification as he leans back into Fletcher.  It’s something like a comfort.

 

•••

 

The last of June turns to July, and they finally have a _name_ : the Dyad Killer.  Named for how the murders come in a pair, one always following the other, always the same pattern. The FBI opened an investigation for the serial killer.  (And how fitting, that they think they’re _singular,_ acting alone.  It makes sense though — they work together as a unit as if they were one entity.)

It’s kind a stupid name and Fletcher was hoping for something better, but they celebrate nonetheless.

They’re in some shitty beachside bar in Daytona, Florida and Andrew watches as Fletcher chats up a woman in a swimsuit.

That’s when he knows he has a problem.  Problem, with a capital _P._

He does not like someone else other than him having Fletcher’s attention — _any_ form of his attention.  It’s like when Fletcher will provoke Andrew into a kill — when he fawns over tall and dark-haired young men just so Andrew will strike out of jealousy.  The way he feels now is just like that.  Possessive. Murderous.

Andrew stumbles to Fletcher and grabs him by the wrist, ignoring his curses as he drags him outside. They’re both drunk and Andrew had pre-gamed with some of his pills so he’s especially inebriated, and he doesn’t really know what he’s doing except that he _has_ to do it.

Fletcher struggles against Andrew’s hold.   “Andrew, I swear to fucking god you will regret this.”

He’s right. Andrew probably will regret it.

The pavement is wet from an earlier thunderstorm and Andrew slips a little when he pushes Fletcher against the car. His head is spinning and Fletcher looks at him through those stupid reading glasses that don’t at all lessen his sharp blue glower.

“Andrew—,” Fletcher begins, but Andrew cuts him off by pressing his mouth against his.

At first it’s not really a kiss, just the pressure of his mouth against his, but it sets his insides aflame nonetheless.  And when Fletcher puts a hand at the base of his neck to bring him closer and then parts his mouth and slips in his tongue, Andrew clutches at his hips and moans, knowing that’s when everything is fucked to hell. 

Too soon, they part. Andrew is a little breathless, but braces his hands on Fletcher’s shoulders and leans in for more, eager.

But Fletcher blocks him, his hand on his chest.  “Get in the car.”

Andrew does without question.

Neither of them are in no state to be driving, but somehow Fletcher manages to get them back to the motel without crashing the car and killing anybody.

Andrew worries about what would happen next, but he doesn’t have to — as soon as he lies on the bed he passes out.

 

•••

 

The next morning they don’t discuss it as they drive north on interstate 75. It’s as if nothing happened. Which is fine, Andrew thinks. They were both wasted, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for your nice comments on here and tumblr! I am so flattered omg!


	5. the fix is in.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Like, it would awesome if you made it an effort so that you were pleasant to be around."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you all are so kind! I appreciate all the comments and kudos! I treasure them all. 
> 
> chapter title: ["The Fix is In"](http://youtu.be/zHGHaLcw0w4) by OK Go
> 
> warning for: homophobic langauge.

He runs out of pills in Georgia. 

It was going to happen soon, Andrew knew.  It sucks but in a way it’s kind of a blessing because he feels too awful to be concerned about things that happened in Florida and things that didn’t happen again. 

They stop at a cabin near the mountains.  Andrew marvels at the sight for only a moment before his line of thought turns to _I’d like to jump off that fucking mountain_ because he’s so jittery he thinks he’ll explode.

“A perfect place for a detox,” Fletcher says in the same tone as if he were commenting that it’s a good day for a hike.

In that moment Andrew realizes this had been Fletcher’s plan all along: wait until he had no choice but to quit, and then trap him so he can’t get more. 

When Andrew suggests that he could get more pills, Fletcher thumps him on the nose. And that’s the end of that discussion. 

Going cold turkey is awful. Every muscle in his body hurts, he can’t stop sweating, and can only sleep for one to two hours at a time. It makes his days run together in an endless hell, and Fletcher plays a staring role as satan himself because he’s so evil for making him go through this.

Andrew vomits while Fletcher yells from the other side of the bathroom door, “You did this to yourself!”

It’s as if Fletcher thinks he can _will_ himself not be sick while detoxing from drugs he’s been dependent on for eight months.

The only reason that Andrew doesn’t punch him in the face is the consolation that Fletcher sits through it all, even if he’s reluctant about it.  He makes sure Andrew doesn’t drown in the bathtub, gives him ginger ale, holds Andrew's hands still when Andrew wants to rip off his own skin to make the crawling sensations stop, and he listens when Andrew has panic attacks about _we’re going to starve and be homeless and get caught and oh god what have I done my life is over I’m so fucked up why am I here with you!_

It’s pretty much nothing in the way of compassion, but Andrew will take what he can get.

But in a few days, Andrew wakes up and feels less miserable.  He still feels like he’s been hit by a truck (and because he _has_ been hit by a truck he feels like he can make that apt comparison), but he isn’t puking all the time and he doesn’t want to bash his head through the wall, so that’s an improvement.

That’s when Fletcher tells him he’s going to leave.

“Only for an hour or so,” Fletcher says.  “Stop being so melodramatic.  Jesus christ, you’re such a girl.”

“But…you can’t!” Andrew sits up in his bed, his color-treated hair frazzled and dirty.  He doesn’t dare say what he thinks, that he’s worried that Fletcher might do a kill without him, or that Fletcher will like being without his company so much that he will never come back.

“ _Can’t?_   I’ll tell you what I can’t do — I can’t be locked up with your junky ass for another moment. For four days I made sure you didn’t die, so I need a break.”  Fletcher gestures to Andrew.  “From you.”

And Fletcher leaves before Andrew can try again to convince him to stay.  Andrew tries to not be too pathetic, knowing that Fletcher would make fun of him for it when he returns.

 _He won’t leave me,_ Andrew says to himself. He thinks of it logically; there’s been a ton of opportunities where Fletcher could have deserted him and he didn’t do it then, so he shouldn’t now. 

But still, he worries. He figures it’s only natural after being locked in small enclosed spaces with the same person for three weeks straight, no matter how much you hate them.  Or how much you want to kiss them again, even though the first time doesn’t mean anything.

“Great, I have fucking Stockholm syndrome,” Andrew says out loud to an empty room.

He needs to distract his mind — especially now that his habit is on the mend.  He takes a long shower and thinks of where he’d like to go next. When he’s done, he steps out and pulls on a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants he adopted from Fletcher two weeks ago. The pants are a few inches too short and hang above his ankles, but he still doesn’t have any pajamas of his own, and these do just fine. 

He catches a glance of himself in the mirror.  He doesn’t look like himself. Which is probably a good thing since he’s technically supposed to be dead, but it’s a shock nonetheless. Dark circles line his eyes, his face has thinned down with the weight he’s managed to drop with skipped meals, and he still isn’t used to the red in his hair.

When he thinks _Andrew Neiman really is dying_ he has a smile on his face.

 

•••

 

It’s been four hours when Andrew hears the rumble of the old Cutlass Ciera pull in front of the cabin. Andrew would like to say he was not worried the entire time, but that’d be a bold-faced lie.

When Fletcher comes through the door the first thing he says is, “So you didn’t try a daring escape.”

It occurs to Andrew that Fletcher probably could have had the same concerns over him leaving. It makes Andrew incredibly pleased.

Fletcher returns bearing gifts: tacos and genuine Georgia peaches.

“Thanks,” Andrew says. It’s his first real meal since he quit the pills and he’s starving.

“Whatever,” Fletcher says. Something Andrew has learned: Fletcher doesn’t take compliments well.  Strike that — he thrives on gratitude and congratulation, he just doesn’t know how to be nice about receiving it, especially when it's offered nonchalant and without means to an end.

Andrew bites into the peach. “And now you can stop worrying about us getting scurvy.”

“Because no matter what you think, Froot Loops isn’t actually a fruit.”  Fletcher picks the pico de gallo out of his taco. “It’s not even spelled with a _U_.”

“Whatever,” Andrew says, echoing Fletcher’s earlier statement.  He still feels awful and isn’t in the mood for semantics.

Of course, Fletcher picks up on Andrew not feeling well and capitalizes on it.  “I’m glad you feel bad.  It serves you right.  The drug habit is one of your biggest flaws, along with bad posture and a sissy attitude.”

“Wow, gee, thanks.”

“See, there’s the attitude I was talking about.”  Fletcher leans back in his chair.  “You do know if it weren’t for your revolting drug habit we wouldn’t be in this whole mess?”

Andrew slams his hand on the table.  “This _again_?”

“But it’s true,” Fletcher says.  “If you didn’t guzzle them down that drug dealer you murdered would have never been in your apartment in the first place.”

“I was protecting myself!” 

“You stabbed him eleven times!” 

They both glare at each other, breathing hard. 

Andrew rubs at his forehead. “Can’t you see I’m fucking suffering? Why can’t you, like, be nice to me for once?”

Fletcher blinks at him. “I _was_ nice. I brought you food.”

“…With money that I helped you steal.”

“And I didn’t leave your ass behind and hightail out of the state.  That’s exceptionally kind of me.”

Andrew sighs. “That’s not what I meant. Like, it would awesome if you made it an effort so that you were pleasant to be around.”

Fletcher stands, and for a moment Andrew thinks that he’s going to leave the room. But he doesn’t — he walks around the small table and leans in towards Andrew.

“Oh, I’m so sorry _sweetheart_ ,” Fletcher says, his voice trilling.  He threads his fingers though Andrew’s hair, and then kisses his forehead.  “I didn’t mean to hurt your poor, little, dainty feelings.”

Andrew is repulsed. “Stop it.  This is weird, fuck.”

“What,” Fletcher says, pinching Andrew’s cheek.  “Isn’t this what you wanted?  To be coddled? Like a small child?”

“You know what I meant.” Andrew gets out of the chair and shoves past Fletcher.  Blood pounds in this ears and he tries to escape to anywhere but there with him, but Fletcher grabs his arm and pushes him down so he’s sitting the bed.

“Then, what do you want from me?” Fletcher asks.  “A blow job?” 

Andrew blushes at the mention.  “W-what? I…uh,” he says, stumbling over his words. He looks anywhere but at Fletcher, feeling shame rise in his chest about how he's hoping it isn't a ruse. “M'not gay,” he mutters.

“I'm not a fag either.”  Fletcher reaches down and trails a hand down Andrew’s face before grabbing him by the chin and forcing him to look up at him.  “But it'd be _nice_ , huh?”

“Yes,” Andrew whispers. He feels himself beginning to stiffen just at the thought of it.

“Alright then,” Fletcher says, and goes down on his knees in front of Andrew.

“Um. What are you doing?”

One hand at Andrew’s waistband and the other rubbing him through his pants, Fletcher looks up at Andrew. “I know you’re a virgin but I would think you’d have _some_ idea how this goes.” 

Andrew bites his lip. “I’m not a virgin.”

Fletcher gives him a look as if to say, _c’mon now._ Andrew figures it’s best not to argue with someone who’s offering to put your dick in his mouth, so he doesn’t try to continue with the lie.

Andrew lifts himself up so Fletcher can pull his pants around his thighs, quickly before either of them can change their mind.  He isn’t wearing any underwear, and when Fletcher sees this and his erection unbound and straining upwards, he’s nonplussed for a moment as if he weren’t expecting that.  Andrew grins, smug.

“Well?” Andrew asks, feeling very brazen.

Fletcher looks at Andrew’s cock before flitting his eyes up to Andrew’s and back down again, as if thinking it through.  Andrew licks his lips, the anticipation too much and fuck, Fletcher better not back out now because he might just shoot himself in the head out of shame and disappointment if he does.

But he isn’t disappointed long.  Fletcher touches him, fingers wrapping around and giving firm experimental strokes, dryly dragging from base to tip.  Andrew inhales sharply and angles his hips towards Fletcher’s touch, his heart already beating faster. Fletcher is watching him closely, taking in every single one of his reactions that he’s giving up so freely, and the intensity of his razor-sharp gaze is fierce, all for him. As if Andrew is his personal entertainment.

It's a good thing that Andrew likes to entertain.

“Fuck, _please,_ ” Andrew begs.  He wants _more_ and he's sick of this teasing shit.  It seems like Fletcher is exploring, taking his time to see what makes Andrew come undone, but Andrew can’t wait.   He makes desperate whimpering noises and clutches at Fletcher’s shoulder, pleading.

Fletcher scoffs. “Greedy, horny little faggot,” he says, still working him slowly, teasing.  The insult has no venom behind it — it’s almost _fond_ , and that’s a mindfuck if there’s ever been one _._

Andrew is about to respond, but then Fletcher licks a stripe along his cock and goddamn, it’s the most awful but erotic thing he’s ever seen.

He can’t contain the moan he lets out, slow and throaty, when Fletcher takes him fully in his mouth, and it only encourages more when he feels Fletcher chuckling, the reverberations vibrating around him.  He’s overcome by the sensation, and he’s completely abandoned any reservations he may have had that it’s Fletcher who’s sucking him off.  He feels _amazing_ and it’s all the wrong kinds of right.

His hand settles at Fletcher’s neck, fingers brushing against the short hair that’s grown out over the past few weeks, trying to force him closer.  Fletcher slides an arm around Andrew’s waist and hauls him forward, and Andrew tucks his ankles around his back.  Fletcher readjusts to the position and sucks him quick and efficiently, tongue swirling around his head every few times he slides off of him. Andrew wants to ask if Fletcher is _sure_ he's not gay, because he seems to know how to suck cock quite well, but Andrew doesn't want to risk that Fletcher would stop what he's doing, (and Andrew doesn't want to consider that maybe Fletcher is so good at it because he's had it done to him a lot).

However Fletcher knows what he knows, it's evident that Fletcher is working exactly to make Andrew into a mess, and when he licks at Andrew’s slit before sliding his lips back over his head, Andrew stares open-mouthed because it’s absolutely _obscene._  

“Fletcher,” Andrew whines. He’s close, and figures he should give Fletcher an ounce of warning, but he can’t string together enough brain cells to do so.

He supposes that Fletcher knows though, and that knowledge makes Fletcher go all in. Fletcher grips him around his base and he takes in him in his mouth as far as he can go and hollows his cheeks, sucking hard and tongue running along the underside of his cock. It’s only a few more moments before Andrew comes, back arching and shouting out, releasing in Fletcher’s mouth.

Fletcher pulls off his cock. He swallows some, but spits most out on Andrew's leg. He wipes what had spilled onto his lips and chin on the back of his hand, and then on the bedspread.

Dazed, Andrew isn’t really sure what to do.  He has half a mind to _thank_ Fletcher but that seems ridiculous.

Curious, he looks down, and he’s pleased to see that Fletcher’s sporting a very obvious hard-on. The gracious thing would be to reciprocate, Andrew thinks, and he reaches down and tugs at Fletcher’s belt until he stands.

“Good,” Fletcher says, unfastening his belt and jeans and pushing them to his knees before sitting next to Andrew.  “Since I’ve just demonstrated, you should do this well.”

Wordlessly, Andrew drops to his knees and shoves his hand into Fletcher’s underwear and grips him hard. Now he understands why. It had been a teaching exercise.

If anything, Andrew has always been a quick and willing learner, especially under Fletcher’s tutelage.

 

•••

 

Their series of murders continues in a streamlined system.  Sporadic, and they travel unconventional routes though the states so they will be harder to track.  They make an effort to make some of the bodies harder to find, and some completely disappear (like the rude kid from a Dairy Queen in Atlanta).  It makes it more plausible that they themselves would be victims of the Dyad Killer. 

“The FBI are idiots,” Andrew says, searching the CNN feed dedicated to the serial killer. He reads an article written by a psychologist proposing the motivations for the murders (current body count: seventeen, but there’s two they haven’t found yet).  It says that the suspect is around 40 years old and targets the victims that he does because he hated his father and had an awful childhood, so he kills the older males as retribution for his father and he kills the young men because he resents not having a healthy upbringing at that age.

Ha, if they only knew.

“Want to call them up and tell them the real story?” Fletcher asks.

“No,” Andrew says. “I’m just saying.”

And that’s how the days pass. Going everywhere but nowhere, giving fake names to everyone they meet (Andrew has been Carl, Ryan, _Charlie,_ and one rebellious time he introduced himself as Sean — which later Fletcher socked him in the face for). Fletcher keeps Andrew under constant surveillance to make sure he doesn’t find a way to slip back into his drug habit, but it’s okay because at least Andrew always knows where Fletcher is, too.  They take out targets and hopefully snag enough money so they can to stay at another scuzzy hotel and have something relatively decent to eat.  Sobriety is difficult and he isn’t able to compensate with pure drumming, but the rush that accompanies a good death is a good substitute.  As is when they pleasure each other with their hands and mouths, frenzied and rough.  He knows that he should feel nasty about it all, but he’s never been more alive.

It’s _fun_ he realizes one time in horror while he’s sucking Fletcher off.  It’s more fun than they would be having if they were back home in New York.  It never would have been like this at home.  Andrew can do (almost) whatever he wants with (almost) no accountability, and Fletcher is almost tolerable at times.  He wonders if it’s the murdering that's made him less of a pain in the ass, or maybe it’s just the sex stuff. 

Whatever it is, somewhere along the way the tolerable days with him have begun to outnumber the miserable ones, and it happened without him really noticing it.

He waits for the other shoe to drop.


	6. off to the races.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's depravity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there. Thank you all for continuing to read this...whatever it is. This chapter title is based off ["Off to the Races"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ET1MhXiUDVg) by Lana Del Rey (Which very much is a reference to "Lolita", imo).
> 
> And warning: this chapter is mostly just smut. So.

Near the end of July, Terence Fletcher and Andrew Neiman go from being missing persons to expected victims of the Dyad Killer.  It sure took long enough.

They’re in Amarillo, Texas when the news breaks. They watch on the television as Andrew’s dad gives a press conference, tearfully but stoically promising that whoever it is that harmed his son will face justice.

It’s almost as if his dad knows that it’s a farce.  Or maybe he thinks that Fletcher murdered him.

“Now I know where you inherited your crybaby tendencies from,” Fletcher says, gesturing to the tiny screen.

“Shut up, damn.” Andrew crosses his arms.

Fletcher says that they’re going to stay put until it blows over and they aren’t getting so much face time on the news.  It shouldn’t be long, two weeks tops he says — because there are so many other victims to focus on (current running total: twenty-four, twenty-six including them). Andrew agrees because there isn’t much stopping Fletcher once he’s made his mind up on a paranoia-influenced decision.  He doesn’t know why they should worry though, because it’s doubtful they could be recognized on the street.  They’re both a shell of their former self; Fletcher is no longer his bald and terrifying self and is instead scruffy — which makes him appear more diminutive, and Andrew with his wild hair — now grown long and shaggy along with the red color — and he’s lost the soft face that he used to have.

It would not be so bad if the hotel they’re holed up in isn’t probably one of the worst they’ve experienced so far. 

“You sure this place isn’t called Bates Motel?” Andrew asks one night, eyeing shadows creeping across the front window.

“The only person who might stab you in the shower will be me,” Fletcher says.

After the first couple days, they go a bit stir crazy.  Fletcher keeps counting the bullets in the gun (a full clip minus one) and the money they have ($836.47), and Andrew drums out every song he knows by memory on the practice pads until they all start to blur together into one suppressive drone.

So it’s not really surprise to either of them when Andrew lets Fletcher fuck him, four days into their seclusion.  They fuck because Andrew’s bored out of mind and Fletcher is growing anxious at the peeling wallpaper and what he claims is asbestos in the bathroom ceiling.  But really, it’s something that’s been hovering that fine line for a long time, and it feels like the natural progression of things. Andrew figures that if the murdering part didn’t happen and the only things they had to worry about were tempos and performances, they eventually would’ve led to them fucking, anyway — the appeal of each other is too strong.

Fletcher parts Andrew’s thighs and works him open with lubed fingers.  Naked and on all fours on the bed, Andrew furrows his brows together and asks, “When did you get that?  Did you bring it from home?” 

“No,” Fletcher says. “After Georgia.”

Ah. Despite the implications that Fletcher had presumed he would be doing this at some point to Andrew, Andrew’s glad he had the foresight to get lube because from what he can tell, it’s going to make it a lot easier.

Fletcher doesn’t warn Andrew before he pushes into him without much gravitas, one determined movement that makes Andrew jolt and let out a high-pitched whine. 

“Hush,” Fletcher says, pressing the heel of his hand on Andrew’s back to steady himself. His voice is strained, as if he has to hold back.  “Don’t tense up.” 

For once, Fletcher isn’t being a total sadist and moves with nice slow motions, his hands ghosting at Andrew’s hips.  Andrew gasps as he feels himself stretching to accommodate the fullness inside him, still a twinge of pain, but also something else.  He focuses on the feeling of Fletcher’s thighs against the back of his legs and the steady rhythm of Fletcher pressing in and out of him, until Andrew blinks away tears and his breathing unhitches and it starts to feel _good_. 

Fletcher is aware when Andrew relaxes and starts to give back a little, so he holds Andrew’s hips steady and thrusts into him harder, rougher.  It’s the way Andrew had expected him to fuck.  Fletcher’s never been anything but ruthless with him, so he wouldn’t expect anything less.  He wouldn’t want anything less, Andrew thinks as his heart hammers away in his chest and tension pools in his stomach.  They have a lot of pent up anger and frustration that they have to release somehow (and basically, other than this, the only alternative left is killing each other, but for real).

The weight of Fletcher’s body against his back and his breath hot against his ear alone is enough to drive Andrew crazy — it’s like he’s got Fletcher in surround sound, turned up all the way.  Yet, he still wants more, so he turns his head to put his lips on Fletcher’s and kisses him sloppily, tongue pushing in and then sucking on his lip.

When they part, Fletcher pants against his mouth, “Slut.”

The way Fletcher looks at him makes his already achingly hard dick throb, and Fletcher’s thrusting into him with precise movements that hit the perfect spot every time, and Andrew can’t help the moans and cries that tumble out of his mouth, a staccato that accents each thrust of his hips. 

“The _sounds_ you make,” Fletcher mutters, exasperated, and he can't bring himself to finish that statement.

Encouraged, Andrew lets out a long shuttering exhale, and pushes himself further down on to Fletcher’s cock, and looks over his shoulder.  When he meets Fletcher’s stare, it’s engrossing — Fletcher is red-faced and breathing heavy and his eyes are wide, and when he sees Andrew looking at him, he chokes out a grunt, low and deep.  He ups the ante, reaches around and starts to stroke Andrew, touching him in the ways he’s learned that he enjoys.  Andrew’s eyes flutter shut, his body shaking, and Fletcher shoves into him harder and faster as he continues to jerk him off.

There might be some misattribution of arousal in why he desires this with Fletcher so much; maybe it developed in the thrill of traveling across the country and leaving a trail of dead behind in their wake, or maybe it began a long time ago at their tumultuous beginnings at the music conservatory.  Whenever it is, it must have been a mix of Fletcher forcing himself into his soul and Andrew giving him a willing admittance.

When Andrew’s orgasm comes, he spurts into Fletcher’s hand and shouts.  He’s still dazed when Fletcher comes a few frenzied thrusts later, the warmth of his release spilling inside him.  It’s a strange feeling, but it makes him let out a tiny whimper, regardless.

Fletcher falls onto the bed, and stares at the ceiling.  He’s still trying to catch his breath and his face is glistening with sweat and wow, it’s a sight to see him unraveled like this, Andrew observes.

It’s a tight fit to be side-by-side on the double bed, but Andrew flops facedown next to him, resting on his elbows.  “Hey,” he says. 

Fletcher turns his head to the side to glare at Andrew.  “I do _not_ do post-coital pillow talk,” he says, and then adds, “that’s too gay.”

“I must be mistaken, because I thought fucking another guy in the ass is pretty much as gay as you can get,” Andrew says.

Fletcher reaches over and hits Andrew’s back, right where his kidney is, the smack of it echoing in the small room.  “Shut your cock-sucking mouth. Fucking hell, you never know when to stop.”

Not wanting to ruin the moment anymore, Andrew keeps quiet and lets Fletcher have his gay crisis, or whatever it is, in silence.  He’s contemplating a nap, but then feels semen leaking out of his ass onto his thigh, the after effect of bareback anal sex.

“Ugh,” he says. He shivers, the rattling air conditioning unit making him chilly, cooling the sheen of sweat on his skin.

“Go take a shower,” Fletcher says. 

Andrew waits, then chances, “Take it with me?” 

Fletcher scoffs. “No!  What the fuck do you think this is?  Go!”

Slightly disappointed but not really surprised, Andrew rolls off the bed and walks into the bathroom.

What does surprise him is when a couple minutes into his shower Fletcher pulls back the shower curtain and shoves Andrew further in and presses him against the rust-stained wall.  Further still, it surprises him when Fletcher attacks his throat with urgency, licking at the scar there, one long healed over that Fletcher did not make.

 

•••

 

The morning after the first time, Fletcher sleeps in.  Andrew is glad, because he can actually watch something on TV that he likes and has some time to himself. 

He’s sitting against the headboard, eating a meal of a peanut butter sandwich that he made out of the marginal supplies they’ve stocked up on, and is halfway through _The Day the Earth Stood Still_ (the original, not the lackluster remake) when he hears Fletcher stir in the bed next to his.

“Did you get enough sleep, geezer?” Andrew asks, smirking as Fletcher blinks awake. He’s feeling particularly mischievous and self-satisfied, so he says, “I guess a good fuck really tires you out.” 

Fletcher aims to throw the phone book at him, but it completely misses and lands unceremoniously on the floor between their beds.

 

•••

 

They have a lot of sex — they have a lot of time to spare, and it’s better than arguing all the time. And if they’re going to be violent with each other, they might as well do it in a way that they get something enjoyable out of it.

It’s sordid, so much so, but Andrew relishes every moment.  He may have not had any before but the time locked away in a Texas hotel makes up for it, and now he doesn’t think that anybody else could satisfy. It’s like he gets every weird fantasy with Fletcher that he could possibly dream up. 

Fletcher fucks Andrew from behind, his hand clutching a fistful of Andrew’s hair and pulling back, forcing Andrew to look into the bathroom mirror as he pounds into him. Fletcher’s vice-tight grip holding him in pace, Andrew finds himself face to face with his own disheveled and wild reflection — he looks vicious, throat exposed and teeth bared. He stares at his fucked-out self for a moment, before his eyes go to Fletcher in the mirror and he sees that Fletcher is watching him, intently, and the idea that he’s that close under his observation makes him moan. Their eyes meet. Fletcher’s grip on his hair eases, allowing Andrew to loll his head back against him.  Through hooded eyelids Andrew watches their reflection as Fletcher rests his face into the crook of his shoulder, biting and then sucking hard at the spot where his neck and shoulder meet.  The sight of it makes Andrew come, his cock untouched.

It’s depravity; a weird brand of hedonism where all they do is feed off of one another. Fletcher can’t get it up as often as Andrew can — being young has its benefits.  Andrew teases him mercilessly about it, but he soon finds out that Fletcher derives is own sick pleasure just from tormenting him and denying him. He will bring Andrew _just_ to the point where he’s squirming, hard and begging for release, but then Fletcher will pull off him and _stop,_ and reach across Andrew’s body and hold his wrists down so he can’t touch himself.  Andrew thrashes and curses and threatens to kill him, but Fletcher just smiles and tells him, “You need to earn it.”  Andrew bucks his hips and whines, calling Fletcher the worst motherfucker who ever lived, until he’s overcome and thinks he’ll die if he isn’t touched soon. It’s only then, when Andrew heaves out a sob pleading for it and his entire being is unspooled, that Fletcher dips back down and takes Andrew’s dick back in his mouth, and it doesn’t take much after that for Andrew to come so hard he’s dizzy. 

He’s screwed, Andrew realizes.  Utterly, and completely so.  He had already been reliant on Fletcher, unfolded like an origami Bird for him. He can’t ever see himself without. And he can’t decide if he hates it.

“I could murder you in your sleep,” Andrew says, straddling Fletcher, placing one leg on either side of him.  Andrew’s aim is to say it coquettishly, but it just comes out sounding like a genuine threat. Maybe it is.  As he lowers himself on his cock, Andrew says, “You know I’m capable of it.”

“Likewise.” Fletcher hand slots around the small of Andrew’s back and he thrusts up to meet Andrew’s rolling hips.

It’s all a terrible idea, but it’s not the worst thing they’ve ever done, so there’s no real reason to stop.

 

•••

 

After sixteen days of lying low, Fletcher says that they have to leave and keep going, or they won’t have enough money to pay for the room.

Andrew plays chauffeur and sits on the driver’s side; he reaches beneath the seat and adjusts it, racking it back so his knees aren’t bent uncomfortably when he uses the pedals.

“Where to?” Andrew asks. It must be a million degrees inside the car after it has sat in the open sun of the parking for so many days. It’s stifling heat, almost unbearable, the pathetic air conditioner not making a dent in it yet.

Fletcher rolls down the window.  “Out of the fucking south.”

 

•••

 

They go state to state — Oklahoma, Missouri, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado.  The Dyad Killer takes more lives, Andrew and Fletcher survive on instinct and skill, and they’re still presumed as victims of the murderer but are still missing.

Nothing changes, it only intensifies.

It’s the dead of night in a field, Fletcher kneels next to a semi-unconscious target (young, dark haired, baby faced) as Andrew stands behind him.

Fletcher looks up to Andrew, and asks, “How do you want me to do it?”

Andrew thinks for a moment, then says, “With your hands,” and he watches as Fletcher obliges and strangles the life out of the boy. 

It shouldn’t be appealing, but it is incredibly so as Fletcher steals the life from him. He feels his pants get tighter as he licks his lips and breathes, “Harder.” 

After, they fuck in the backseat of the car.

 

•••

 

Not for the first time, Andrew thinks of what it would be like if he were traveling cross-country as a musician, and not as a serial killer.  Sometimes he pretends like he is — just finished a sold-out show in Salt Lake City, now to another one in Reno.  Some dreams don’t change.

This time, he thinks of it because of a video Ryan Connolly posts on the _Help Find Andrew Neiman_ page.  He had no idea that Ryan had the video; it’s a shaky phone recording of a gig he did six months after the JVC show.  It was around the time when things were starting to look up and his name was gaining clout in the local jazz community, and both him and Fletcher were pleased with the advancement.  That’s how Ryan was there; “someone in my class told me that some cool drummer was at this club, and I had to come check it out when I recognized his name,” he had said with one of those cool-guy grins, then followed with a, “nice job!” It had been a surprise that Ryan had been supportive because if Andrew were in Ryan’s place he would be bitter, because he’s the one who made it, he’s the one who he picked to mentor and pour all his time into, _him._  

“Look,” Andrew says, pointing to the screen, “look how great I am.” 

Fletcher hardly glances at the video.  “ _Was_ , Andrew.  You aren’t that good anymore.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”  Andrew frowns. He reads the comment that Ryan had posted along with the video: _miss you, bro. so does your kit._  

“Talent just doesn’t…disappear,” Andrew says, quiet and hushed, as if he were to proclaim it too loud someone would come and snatch it away because Andrew Neiman is gone and doesn’t need things like _talent_.

For the first time in the conversation Fletcher looks at Andrew.  He makes a humming noise and then says, “Well, we’ll never know, will we?”  There’s a moment, then, “Why does it matter anyway?”

And fucking goddamn, why is it so hard to understand?  Fletcher’s on his side, he should know what it feels like, why it matters. He doesn’t know if Fletcher’s using some kind of power play to manipulate him into admitting it, but regardless, it works. 

“It matters because that’s who I am,” Andrew begins, then looks up at him through his eyelashes. “And it matters because it’s the reason why you like me.”

“Oh, Andrew,” Fletcher sighs.  He slaps Andrew in the face — not like the stinging blows he pairs with minced words to keep Andrew in line but it's soft, playful, possessive.  “Okay, sure,” he says, but not really saying anything at all. 

Andrew swallows, licks his lips.  “Because I’m your Charlie Parker, remember.” 

His idealism evokes Fletcher to roll his eyes.  “Your self-righteous attitude isn’t cute.” 

“False. You called me cute the other day.” Andrew remembers it clearly: they were in Tree Grove Motel, which does seem like a very specific memory but he can’t forget it because they were in the desert and there were no trees _anywhere,_ much less a grove _._ He had been sharing a queen-sized bed with Fletcher (the pretense of matching double beds now gone), and he had his face pressed against Fletcher’s chest while Fletcher ran his hand through his hair, pushing curls away from his face, and Fletcher had said, “Your freckles are more visible because of all the sun you're getting,” his hand moving from his hair and landing against his back, “it’s a good thing they make you look cute.”

Now, Fletcher says, “That doesn’t sound like me.”  His face scrunches up in the disdainful way it gets when he doesn’t want to discuss a subject any further.  It always makes the lines in his face rougher, like edges of broken glass.  “You have the charm of a rotting road kill that’s been in the sun for five days and is starting to ferment to the ground.”

Andrew lets it drop because Fletcher will fight to have the last word, but in this instance it’s okay because the point is made whether Fletcher admits it or not. Except later when Andrew realizes that he never really gave true affirmation if he thinks he still has his talent, or not.

 

•••

 

There are a few comments posted that Andrew doesn’t tell Fletcher about.

One: _honestly at first when they were missing I thought Fletcher killed Neiman,_ written by a Carl Tanner, of all people. People must seem to agree with him because his post has thirty-nine likes, and they’re by names Andrew mostly recognizes from Shaffer.  Someone responds _: I dunno, remember when Neiman throttled Fletcher at Dunellen? he would have bashed his head in if he hadn’t of been stopped._   Another comment: _maybe he shouldn’t have been stopped._  

For some reason, Andrew thinks it would make Fletcher mad, or annoyed. Or maybe he’d just find it funny. The fact that Andrew doesn’t know how Fletcher would react makes him keep it a secret.

 

•••

 

July turns to August, and in one day it’s Andrew’s twenty-first birthday.

“So?” Fletcher says when Andrew tells him.  “Were you expecting a cake?  Want me to be Betty fucking Crocker, apron and all?  Wanted to lick the…mixing spoon, whatever the fuck it’s called?” 

“No,” Andrew says, adjusting his sunglasses — still the ones from Graceland — and crosses his arms into a pout.  “I’m just saying. I know it’s been, like, forever since you’ve been twenty-one and you may have forgotten, but it’s kind of a big deal.”

Unfazed by the gibe at his age, Fletcher replies, “Grow the fuck up, Andrew.  Just because you managed to survive the Earth going around the sun once more doesn’t mean you’re entitled to the whimsy of birthday wishes.”

“I never asked for anything.”  Sure, there are a lot of things that Andrew wishes he had — a legit New York slice of pizza, a chance to sit behind a drum kit, a few pills to take the edge off, and a cake actually sounds fucking _amazing_ — but he certainly doesn’t expect anything generous from Fletcher, it’s too untoward for him.  But. Fletcher is the only goddamn person he has to interact with on this excursion and it’d be really fucking nice to for him to think of Andrew for once just because he wants to and not because he has to.

 

•••

 

The next day — Andrew’s birthday — Fletcher takes them to the Grand Canyon.

Both try to act like it’s no big deal.

“See this?” Fletcher says, waving his hands in front of him as if he were conducting.  He and Andrew are standing near one of the ledges of the canyon, looking out over the landscape.  It occurs to Andrew how little effort it would be for them to topple over the side.

“This,” Fletcher continues, “is a good reminder that you are nothing.  Unimportant.  A mere spec in the universe.”

The breeze is a harsh flurry against his Andrew’s ears, rustling his clothes and hair and kicking up dust into his eyes.  He blinks. 

“That’s really inspiring, Fletcher,” Andrew says dryly.  “I feel so much better now about my life, thank you.”

His hands on his hips, Fletcher seems a little irked that Andrew isn’t taking his lecture seriously. “Andrew.   What I’m trying to say is that no matter what you accomplish, it doesn’t matter.  You could become the most notorious serial killer in history or be the greatest jazz musician there's ever been, and you expect that people will always remember your legacy, but they will forget. They will forget about you and they will forget what you did and they will forget why they cared. But this?” he says, again gesturing to the canyon, “People will always be astounded by a hole in the ground thousands of feet deep.  They will be in awe of it because it just _is._ ” 

Andrew shuffles his feet. His sneakers are beyond hope and he desperately needs new ones.  “That doesn’t really sound like you.  What happened to Shaffer Fletcher who thought the only purpose in life was to be the best musician that walked the face of the earth?”

Fletcher sighs. “I’m not saying you _shouldn’t_ work to be the best.  Why the fuck wouldn’t you?  But what I mean is…”  He struggles over the next words.  “…that it’s fine if everyone doesn’t _know_ you’re the best.  Don’t get hung up over it.  As long as _you_ know.”

“I don’t care about that anymore,” Andrew says hurriedly.  His eyes sting, and it’s not just from the dirt. 

Chuckling, Fletcher says, “Yeah, you do.”

True. He’ll probably always care. It was the basis of his cultivation, it’s in his roots, and the only way it could ever leave him is if he were to die, _actually_ die. 

“But don’t you see, Andrew? Why it doesn’t matter?” Fletcher asks. “It’s just a canyon. You’re just a person. Who gives a fuck.” 

It’s Fletcher’s version of a platitude but instead of making Andrew feel better it just makes Andrew feel a little sick.  He doesn’t know why. 

Thankfully the topic drops and they walk around a bit until they find another sightseer. He fits their qualifications (in his 60’s, bald head covered by a cap) so Fletcher swiftly bashes his head into a rock while Andrew distracts him by chatting with him. 

“Happy fucking birthday,” Fletcher says.  He clinks a bottle of hard cider with the one Andrew is holding — both taken from the man who lies dead a couple feet away.  They drink in silence as they look at what is _just_ a canyon.

 _He tried_ , Andrew thinks.  He isn’t sure what to think about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* _orgasm denial_
> 
> And yes, I made it so Andrew Neiman is a Leo, as per the fandom consensus.


	7. do I wanna know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for continuing to read and support this. Y'all are the BEST!
> 
> Chapter title: ["Do I Wanna Know?"](http://youtu.be/Fn2OfRGbxwc) by the Artic Monkeys (I'm really partial to this acoustic version!).
> 
> Extra content warnings: minor self-harm, and description of violence (as usual), and explicit sex.

The thing is, Andrew never really knows where he stands with Fletcher.  After all the time Andrew has known him — months of being on the road and on the run, and a year has come and gone since he became his disciple — he thinks that he would know Fletcher by now.  Know him like the certainty in which Fletcher knows him. But he doesn’t. Fletcher is a private person and he never feels obligated to fill the empty spaces that gap between them. Where on the other hand, Andrew won’t shut up; it’s because Andrew needs that constant reassurance that someone is paying attention to him — Andrew knows this about himself because Fletcher told it to him.

To balance it out, Andrew complies an encyclopedia in his head, subject: all things Terence Fletcher. He keeps information he learns about Fletcher stored away in the hopes he can make some sense of Fletcher.  It contains things like: how much he hates raw tomatoes, that he appreciates Amy Winehouse, the shape of the scar on his stomach that he got when he had his appendix taken out when he was seventeen, how blood on his face looks like dark war paint in dim light, what _Andrew_ sounds like in his mouth depending on if he’s furious or aroused or neutral.

It’s Andrew’s ongoing study. 

Having all these pieces of Fletcher helps to understand him some, but it also damns Andrew more. It’s like when you touch a hot surface — it hurts at first with a burn and the pain does eventually go away, but it’s going to leave a scar.

Fletcher does get one thing wrong about Andrew, however.  He makes the mistake of telling him, “You are lost.”

“No,” Andrew says. He isn’t lost at all, he’s _exactly_ where he needs to be. He knows himself — knows the buzz in his ears, desire in his heart, and bloodlust in his veins. He knows what he has to do. He knows that he’s _his_ hellion of a boy.

And he’s sure to make Fletcher certain of that. 

“Jesus fucking christ, Neiman,” Fletcher says, standing over Andrew as Andrew cuts out somebody’s still-warm heart. 

Andrew looks over his shoulder and says, “ _Neiman_?” as if slipping back to the usage of his last name is the biggest offensive of the scene, and not him having his gloved hands dipped into someone’s chest cavity.

“Andrew,” Fletcher amends.

Andrew smiles.

The way Fletcher looks at him gets stored in his mental encyclopedia.

 

•••

 

A tragedy occurs. Andrew’s hands heal. 

It happens gradually. Try as he might, he can’t get to the same level of playing with the practice pads alone, so without the constant subjection of mistreatment, his perpetual blisters heal over and the calluses lining his joints begin to soften.

When he notices, his first thought is, _oh that’s why they don’t hurt anymore._   The second thought is how his hands don’t look like his own.  They’re someone else’s, one who has never willingly shed blood for a cause. 

Andrew starts to interfere with the healing skin, absentmindedly rubbing and picking at it, tinkering until there’s the familiar sting of raw, red skin and the dampness of his blood between his fingertips. 

It reminds him of a different time. 

(His blood feels different on his hands than others, he swears it has a different kind of consistency.) 

He can hardly contain his glee when Fletcher notices and glares at his hands with contempt.

“I had hoped you gave up this revolting habit,” Fletcher says as he dabs a peroxide-soaked paper towel at Andrew’s hand in a Colorado Springs rest stop.  “If you’re bleeding everywhere you can leave behind evidence, dumbass.” He frowns at Andrew’s hand, then adds, “And I don’t want you touching me with scabby hands.”

“Sorry,” Andrew says. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Fletcher stops and looks up to meet his eyes.  Mouth parted and head slightly tilted, it’s almost as if he had not expected an instant apology and was preparing for an argument, where he’d battle excuses from Andrew with subverted insults. 

“You’re damn right you weren’t thinking,” Fletcher says, and there’s a strained tenor in his voice. He tosses the wad of paper towel in the trash, and takes Andrew’s hand between his, inspecting the open wound. “You won’t do it again, correct?” 

“Correct,” Andrew says.

Satisfied with his promised complacency, Fletcher nods.  Andrew watches as Fletcher guides his trapped hand up, and gently blows. The peroxide dries, cool against Fletcher’s warm breath.  Between that and the pressure of his hand slotted between Fletcher’s, it’s enough to make his head cluttered and a heat flare between his legs.

 

•••

 

Andrew gets blamed for a lot of things that are not his fault, but Andrew doesn’t get too upset about it, because it’s neither of their faults that Fletcher is emotionally stunted. (Andrew wonders a lot why he's that way, but who knows with him.)

Like flat tires, for instance. It's his fault. The back right one is out, and Fletcher is yelling curses at him, but Andrew blows it off — again, Fletcher can’t really help it.  Plus it’s sweltering hot outside, which is enough to make anybody grumpy.

Fletcher looks up from the ground, tire iron in hand (suspiciously shiny, because it’s been thoroughly washed after bashing someone’s head in).  “Didn’t your daddy ever teach you how to change a tire?” he asks, and he brandishes the tire iron in the direction of the spare tire.

“No,” Andrew says, leaning against the car.  He draws circles with his finger in the Arizona dust that’s stuck to the car.

“Figures,” Fletcher says, then, “Here, let me show you.” 

They have to kill three people to have enough money to patch the tire.  While they wait for the mechanic to fix it and give their poor car a much-needed oil change, they go to a quirky pawnshop that’s next door.

It’s mostly junk and things they can’t use, but Andrew finds a box a cassette tapes and he rummages though them.  Pleased with himself, he takes over a handful to Fletcher and says, “Look.” 

Fletcher flips through the selection — Chet Baker, Duke Ellington, John Coltrane, a couple others, and of course, Buddy Rich.

“Something to listen to other than the radio and Depeche Mode,” Andrew says, hopeful. He isn’t above begging for them. He doesn’t have to, though — they pay five dollars for the lot, and leave with their second-hand treasures.

On the road again, jazz swells though the shitty mono car speakers, a soundtrack of them — two displaced and lonely musicians.

 

•••

 

New Mexico is the first time that Andrew fucks Fletcher. 

Andrew has had this idea in his mind that it would never happen.  He’s thought about it, sure.  He’s thought about what it would be like to fuck the bastard into the mattress, plunging into him hard, with his hands pushing down on his shoulders so hard he feels his pre-arthritic joints popping beneath his palms.  But he never gave it too much consideration because he likes what he already has in their arrangement, and he was almost certain that Fletcher would never relent to it and would beat the shit out of him if he even dared to ask.

Except he never had to ask, not really.  Stripped down to nothing on another anonymous hotel room bed they rut against each other, hastily and needy. They pummel at each other with their fists and teeth, each violent for the other.  Fletcher gets more hits in, his savagery at a near perfection, and evades most of Andrew’s strikes with ease.

Under him, Andrew says, “Fuck you.” He tries to slap Fletcher in the face but Fletcher prevents it by catching his wrist and throwing his arm aside, then leans in and bites hard Andrew on the shoulder, as if to punish for the intended blow, or maybe because he missed. Andrew doesn’t know which. 

The whole thing resembles a brawl more than it does sex.

Andrew’s breath catches in his chest.  “Fuck you,” he says, gasping as he feels his dick sliding against Fletcher’s, “fuck you fuck you fuck—” 

“Sure,” Fletcher grumbles, cutting him off.  “Then do it.” 

It shocks Andrew so much that he comes to a standstill.  “What?”

“You know _what_.  But if you’d rather lie there like an idiot then the offer is revoked,” Fletcher says, his mouth against Andrew’s, their teeth clashing.  “I’m only letting you because you wouldn’t shut up about it. And maybe it’ll make you man up.”

If he weren’t so out his mind with lust Andrew would make Fletcher say the words, make him beg for it. But he’s sure that Fletcher has never begged for anything in his life and it’s a wonder he’s letting him do it at all, so Andrew snatches the opportunity.

The switch in roles is a little jarring, Andrew thinks as he kneels behind Fletcher, working him open with his fingers.  _This_ part of it isn’t so new per se; a couple times when Andrew was on his back and Fletcher was fucking him, Andrew would reach his hand around Fletcher and press his fingers in and bend them up to find that place to make Fletcher jolt.  But it’s the thought of what he’s about to do, that _he’s_ going to be the one pushing into him, that makes him feel faint and his dick so so hard.

Andrew thinks that it could all be a ruse and that any moment Fletcher will change his mind and turn around, pin Andrew to the bed and claim him.  But he doesn’t — he stays silent except for the guttural sounds in his throat he makes when Andrew hooks his fingers and fuck, it drives Andrew mad.

Andrew never thinks, he thinks too much.  He doesn’t understand why he’s so drawn to this horrid, old-as-hell man.  He doesn’t understand and never will, so he stopped trying to a long time ago.

“Hurry up,” Fletcher says.

And because he’s feeling cheeky, Andrew says, “Patience.” 

Fletcher groans and mutters something about Andrew’s incompetence and he won’t stop talking, so Andrew does the only thing he can think of to shut him up — he slips out his fingers, bends his head down and licks him, his tongue dragging slowly over sensitive skin.

 _That_ brings Fletcher’s attention back to Andrew.

“Fuck, Andrew!” Fletcher says, shooting a look over his shoulder as Andrew slips his fingers back in, aided by the extra wetness.  “You disgusting little cocksucker ungh—” and his remark dissolves into a garbled mess when Andrew splays his hand on his ass and puts his tongue on him again.

Oh, Andrew thinks, he could get used to this, how Fletcher jerks without restrain beneath his touch.

The rest goes quickly. Fletcher turns to his back and grabs Andrew by the hair, yanking him down and raspingly ordering, “now _._ ”  Andrew doesn’t need to be told twice — he slicks himself up, parts Fletcher’s thighs and pushes in, quick and without allowing time for Fletcher to adjust, and it’s almost too much already, hot and slick, and his hands scramble at Fletcher’s hips for something to steady himself. 

“Don’t you _dare_ blow your load this soon,” Fletcher growls. “Focus.”

Andrew takes a few deep breaths, and then begins thrusting slow, then starts to pick up the pace. It’s awkward for a moment, each trying to control the motions, and they end up trashing against each other, syncopated.

“What’re you doing?” Fletcher spits, rolling his hips against Andrew’s.  “Haven’t I taught you better?”

He has; the past two months have been like some weird sex boot camp carried out in sleazy motels on cheap sheets and with no morals whatsoever.  A laugh rises in Andrew at the thought.

“What’s so funny, Chuckles?”

When Andrew tries to explain he can’t, so he just throws his head back and slams his hips against him harder. He has to bite down on his lip when Fletcher makes an uncharacteristic surprised yelp and squeezes his hips so hard there's sure to be bruises left behind.

Eventually, their tempo evens out to one Fletcher helps them find, and it’s all so overwhelming — the tight warm feelings around him, the heady smell of sex, the crash of their hips, the pressure of Fletcher’s legs wrapped around his waist, and the way Fletcher is making these fantastic noises he’s never heard him make before. It’s a sensory overload, and without really any forewarning Andrew comes fast and hard, whining out Fletcher’s name. Fletcher’s groans, still unsatisfied, but after Andrew regains his bearings he wraps his hand around Fletcher’s dick and brings him off with a few firm strokes.

Andrew slides himself out and lies on his back next to Fletcher, sure to lie on Fletcher’s outstretched arm because Fletcher has complained before about how Andrew’s “freakishly heavy neanderthal body” makes his arm numb when he’s on top of it.

“I didn’t think,” Andrew says slow, testing, “that you would’ve liked it like that.” 

He’s met with silence and he wonders if Fletcher has fallen asleep already. He turns to look at him and sees he’s awake and staring at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes. Andrew pokes him in the side and says, “Because of the whole control thing.”

Fletcher sighs and rests his untrapped arm on his stomach.  “It doesn’t mean you’re dominating someone just because your dick is in their ass.” 

That’s accurate — Fletcher has been sure to teach Andrew the many ways that control can be exerted, whether it’s to pleasure or to hurt (or a mix of both).

Then as if to prove his point, Fletcher jerks his arm from underneath Andrew with a swiftness that’s not unlike yanking a tablecloth off a table full with dishes without them clattering to the floor.  He rolls onto his side and seizes Andrew’s neck and shakes him a little, his fingertips digging into the flesh of his skin, and when Andrew swallows he feels the pressure of his throat constricting against the grip. 

“You’re the perfect masochist,” Fletcher says.  It’s almost _adoring_ , and it fucks with Andrew’s mind so badly. 

It’s terrible. It makes Andrew want to kiss him, so he goes to do just that, leaning in and breathing hard.  But Fletcher stops him, forcing him away with his hand.

“Go brush your teeth,” Fletcher says.  “I don’t do ass-to-mouth.” 

Andrew grumbles but gets out of bed, waving his hand dismissively behind him as Fletcher calls out, “Twice!” 

Later, Fletcher tells him, “Not bad for your first try,” and there’s the subtle implication there will be more attempts.

Andrew doesn’t comment about it, nor how Fletcher had seemed to enjoy it more than he puts on; instead, he yanks the blankets from Fletcher and says, “You’re hogging them, my feet aren’t covered,” to which Fletcher replies, “It’s not my fault you’re so damn tall.”

It’s almost intimate — almost.  But there is a trail of _almosts_ following them, so it feels valid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, I did the thing ~~and I swore I would never ever write rimming but I've done a lot of things I said I would never do~~
> 
> with this, it's officially at the half-way point! Thank you all for continuing this ride with me through jazz hell. I feel loved ♥


	8. hotel california.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> California brings new developments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very long. A lot happens. Please pay attention to the extra content warning, I don't want to accidentally trigger someone.
> 
> Chapter title: ["Hotel California"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yyy4yaVwsv0) by The Eagles.
> 
>  _Extra content warnings:_ minor sexual assault (but it's not the main characters doing it to each other, if that makes sense); I don't really know how else to warn for this. Some transphobic langauge (it's Fletcher, he's awful), and victim blaming. Mention of gaslighting?

“We should go to California,” Andrew says. 

“Because it turned out so well in _The Grapes of Wrath_?” Fletcher asks, clipped.

Andrew rolls his eyes; sometimes Fletcher is frustrating for no purpose other than to be frustrating. “That happened like, a hundred years ago.”

“It takes place during the Great Depression.  The 1930’s.”

“Oh, right. I forgot you were around back then, so you’d know.” 

“Smartass.”

“Dirty old man.”

Despite Fletcher’s reservations, they go to California.  For the past month, every time they’ve got close to the coastal state, they would turn and go in another direction with an unspoken agreement. Maybe because it seemed like some kind of end goal in a thing that has no goal.  All the way west, nowhere else to travel.  But now, it seems senseless not to continue.

They sleep in the car the first night because they’re flat broke and too tired to work to get money (current body count: thirty-eight, an even forty if they count themselves). They park in a public parking lot not too far away from the ocean and settle in — Fletcher stretched across the front seat and Andrew in the back — both a little hungry, and they fall asleep to the sound of late night traffic and the distant crashing of waves against the shore.

 

•••

 

There are a few rules to their method, which developed naturally during the course of the process: Only take out targets worth the effort.  Don’t leave behind any evidence.  A kill is more effective if the target is an asshole. Don’t kill someone too important. And do not _ever_ kill without the other. 

So when they wake up bright and early in the California sun (Fletcher first, and he purposely lurches the car into reverse fast so Andrew crashes into the floorboard), the first thing they do is find a target.  It doesn’t take long, there are so many people in southern California, and it’s so casual that people won’t realize that someone is being stalked as prey.

Current future Dyad victim: young, twenty-something male, raven-dark hair, Ray Band shades pushed up on his head and a baseball bat tucked under his arm as he withdraws money from an ATM. Fletcher calls him a “fuckboy” which he has to explain to Andrew.

It’s almost become too easy, Andrew thinks as he bludgeons the fuckboy with the baseball bat. He has strong arms that have the propensity to swing down hard onto a solid surface, a kinetic energy that is always ready to spring from a dormant state.

“Want a go?” Andrew asks, offering the bat to Fletcher.  Fletcher scowls; he’s never one for overzealous killings and this guy is already dead, but he reaches out with a gloved hand and accepts the bat and takes a few hits at the guy just for the hell of it.

It’ll be an hour and a half before the blood starts to congeal, and it’ll be a lot longer than that before the tingling of a phantom impact of striking something hard goes away from their muscles.

Fletcher stands guard as Andrew searches the fuckboy’s pockets.  In it, there’s his wallet, with five hundred dollars fresh from the ATM. Andrew gets Fletcher’s attention and shows it to him before slipping it into his own pocket.

“Well done. Now let’s go,” Fletcher says.

After, they have a very much-deserved breakfast (an all-out American breakfast, and Fletcher doesn’t say one fucking word to Andrew about his syrup-covered pancakes because he has some, too), and then grab a few supplies and check-in to the cheapest motel they can find.  They shower separately, washing off road grime and sweat; when Andrew washes his hair there are flecks of blood that comes out of his hair onto his hand.

When Andrew steps out of the bathroom he sees that Fletcher is already in bed sleeping. The sheets are pulled up only to his stomach and his arms are sticking out, and Andrew can see the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Andrew joins him, carefully, as not to wake him.

As he settles in next to him, Andrew thinks of how it’s always a little odd to see Fletcher sleep. Not only because Fletcher seems like a person who could run on sheer will alone and not need something as obligatory as rest, but also because of his expression — he looks as pissed off when he’s sleeping as he does in his waking time. His mouth is a firm, unforgiving line and there's a crease between his brows that stays. It's like he's working out all the troubles that he's ever had, or is taking a count of offenses made towards him. Because he is _Fletcher_ , and he will never take a break or shut his brain down and let all that shit process. He can't take that risk.

Or maybe it’s like how Andrew’s dad used to tell Andrew when he was young and would pull a face and roll his eyes — if you don’t stop, your face will get stuck like that.

 

•••

 

Twin Palms motel is one of the better places they’ve stayed — the duvet doesn’t have suspicious stains, the bathroom is slightly bigger than the matchbox size they’re used to, and there’s an actual functioning coffeemaker — so they take the time to shape up. They each buy a couple new shirts because the few they own have become worn at the hems from constant wear and washing in motel washing machines, and Andrew finally gets new shoes.

Andrew’s hair has grown long, curly waves falling past his ears and on his neck in a gradient of natural dark brown to a faded artificial red.  He re-dyes his hair, this time sure to get the color spread evenly throughout, and he keeps the bathroom door open so he doesn’t suffocate from chemical inhalation. The end result this time is much better than the previous attempt. 

Andrew figures he must be out of mind, but he lets Fletcher near his head with scissors. He sits on the closed toilet lid as Fletcher gives him a haircut, trimming at the bangs that threaten to hang in his eyes and cuts at strands that curl around his ears and at the base of his neck. He wishes that he thought of cutting his hair sooner because it’s been hot as hell and he’s been sweating to death under his mop of hair, and he had been sick of Fletcher randomly plucking at his hair and calling him _ladyboy_.

It's actually quite nice, and he relaxes into Fletcher’s touch threading through his hair. That is until Fletcher softly says, “Oops...”

“What did you do?” Andrew’s hand goes to his hair. “You messed it up on purpose, you son of a bitch!”  He cranes forward to look in the mirror, expecting to see a chunk of hair missing — just because the bastard hardly has any hair doesn’t mean he has to take it out on him — but as he pivots his head around, he doesn’t see anything wrong with his hair.

“A joke,” Fletcher says, a smile creeping in his voice, and it's so odd that Andrew just stares.  Fletcher grabs Andrew’s shoulder and pulls him back toward him and begins clipping again. “Now sit still while I finish or I might accidentally stab you in the jugular.”

Once Andrew reaches an “adequate” appearance according to Fletcher (“that’s all that you can do that doesn’t require major surgery or extreme workout regimen”), Fletcher neatens up himself.  Andrew stands in the bathroom doorway in his pajamas — still the sweatpants that used to belong to Fletcher, he never bothered to get his own — and watches as Fletcher trims his beard in front of the mirror.

Fletcher catches his eyes in the reflection.  “What’s spinning in that hamster wheel of yours?”

“I was wondering,” Andrew says, and immediately Fletcher has that vexed look of _what now?_ , like he finds it contemptible when Andrew’s mind strays too much.  Andrew begins again, “I was wondering what it’s like to kiss a clean-shaven man.”

And there’s that sigh Andrew had been fishing for, the long drawn-out one where Fletcher inhales through his nose and exhales out his mouth with dramaticism to show just how ridiculous he thinks Andrew is.  For good measure, Fletcher throws in a, “Queer,” as he turns his head to the right and trims along his jaw; short bits of gray hair fall into the sink.

Andrew saunters the two steps across the tiny bathroom and stands behind Fletcher. He considers putting his chin on Fletcher’s shoulder but then the scissors would be really close to his face and he doesn’t want to chance it, especially since he managed to get out of his own haircut unscathed and Fletcher is probably looking for an opportunity to cause him bodily harm.

It’s true, Andrew has thought about what it would be like to have smooth skin rubbing against him instead the tickling of hair as he mouths against his neck, and he has thought a _lot_ what it would be like for Fletcher to go down on him like that, because a lot of times Fletcher will leave behind sensitive pink patches of beard burn on his inner thighs.  It’s not that Andrew doesn’t like it, it’s become a familiar gruffness that he identifies as _Fletcher_ (like mornings when Andrew wakes with Fletcher’s face pressed into the dip between his shoulder blades, even though they started the night before apart), but he still thinks of what it would be like to experience him as he was when he first knew him.

“Do you miss your hairlessness?” Andrew asks.

Fletcher shrugs, and examines his handiwork in the mirror.  “Sort of. The shaved thing was my look.” 

“I like you scruffy, though.”

Fletcher makes a disgruntled face and wipes off the hair stuck to the blades of the scissors, and then sets them on the counter. “It's not what I'm used to. So, yeah, I do.” 

“But you aren’t a frightening jazz tycoon anymore,” Andrew says, and after a beat Fletcher responds, “No, I guess not.”

 

•••

 

They’ve been in California for five days and taken out another victim, and neither is thinking about going anywhere any time soon.  In Santa Monica they are not Terence Fletcher and Andrew Neiman, they’re just two other people, and they don’t have to worry when they walk down the pier together because nobody turns an eye at them when they stand a little too close. In Santa Monica, they are Terence Fletcher and Andrew Neiman but only to each other and they talk about long-dead musicians and plot destruction and fight and fuck behind closed doors.

It’s almost normal, if normal for them was normal.

 

•••

 

It wakes Andrew up.

He swears he’d know it anywhere, drumsticks hitting a solid surface, rolling out rhythms.

He’s drawn to it. He leaves Fletcher snoozing in bed and quietly pulls on clothes and opens the door, searching for the source of the sound.  It’s not long after sunrise and Andrew has to squint but he sees what he’s looking for — on the opposite side of the road there’s a guy sitting on the curb and drumming on miscellaneous buckets and tin cans, which act as a makeshift drum set.

Andrew looks behind him at Fletcher’s sleeping form.  He debates leaving to go across the street; he feels like he shouldn’t leave even though he has never been explicitly told not to, but it feels like some kind of serendipity and he can’t pass it up.

He clicks the door shut behind him, and jogs across the parking lot and street to the street performer.

There’s a small crowd when he gets there, amazed at the beats that the guy is throwing out. Admittedly, the guy isn’t too bad, he’s got skill but he lacks the finesse and extra oomph that professional training gives. 

 _If only you could see what I could do,_ Andrew thinks, but then remembers that he isn’t supposed to be a drummer anymore.

The drummer finishes out his song with a final crash against a garbage can on its side that serves as a cymbal and the small audience applauds, some throwing money in a turned over hideous lime-green hat next to the performer’s feet before moving on. He says his thanks, and bends down to sort through the money.

Andrew stays behind when everyone else walks away.  “Not bad. Nice polyrhythms,” he says, “but your grip is atrocious.”

The drummer looks up at Andrew, and raises his eyebrows.  “Thanks?”

“You also kind of lost the tempo a minute before the end.  Never really got back.”

Too bad this guy doesn’t qualify for a kill, Andrew thinks, but the makeshift drummer has buzz cut of platinum-blond hair that’s exactly what Andrew thinks of when he imagines someone from California, and he’s short and about seven years too old for their selection. But as the blond drummer stands, shoves his sticks in his back pocket and crosses his arms, Andrew realizes that he doesn’t want to kill him but instead wants to talk to him, and then that makes him realize that he’s the first person that he’s talked to in months that isn’t Fletcher, someone they’re about to murder, or someone he’s ordering food from.

“So you’re some kind of drummer or something?” the drummer asks. 

Andrew scrapes his thumbnail at healed-over blister.  “Yeah, something like that.”

 

•••

 

Time slips by fast when he’s at the helm, no matter if the set is made from junkyard variety. He’s got sticks in his hands, sweat pouring down his back, a beat in his ears, and an audience — which is by far is probably one of the sweetest things.

Blondie stands beside him, watching as he plays, and says, “Wow, man, you’re good.”

Andrew would say _not good, great_ , but he’s too out of breath so instead he just rounds into another roll with a flourish, which sends the crowd gathered around him into another round of oohs and ahhs.

It’s awesome. For one moment he can forget where he is, who he’s stuck with, what he’s done, and a nervous tension he hadn’t known was sticking to his insides alleviates.

But it doesn’t last; there’s someone shouting and shoving through the crowd. Andrew looks up and it’s Fletcher. Of course it’s Fletcher, it’s always him. 

If Fletcher’s fading panicked look doesn’t beat everything, Andrew doesn’t know what does.   _He thought that I ran away_ , Andrew realizes, and judging by Fletcher's outrage, Fletcher hates that he slipped up and let Andrew see that fear.

Andrew stops the previous song he had been playing and goes into a traditional double-time swing, grinning as the rhythm swells and Fletcher’s temper rises.

He’s still smiling when Fletcher drags him away by the wrist, and he's smug, like a kid who ran off to the toy section when his parent wasn’t looking.  Sparking Fletcher’s white-hot fury is almost as good as drumming. Inciting a reaction means that there is something that matters.  And Fletcher’s anger is nothing that he can’t handle.

Fletcher pushes Andrew into their room, and slams the door behind him. 

“You were worried I escaped,” Andrew says.

He can’t say he’s surprised when Fletcher slaps him in the face. 

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Fletcher barks, choosing to ignore Andrew’s statement. “Someone could have—” 

“Relax,” Andrew says. “I’m supposed to be dead, remember? And we’re two thousand miles from where I was last seen.  Nobody will know.”

Fletcher is unconvinced and Andrew knows that he’s about to get a twenty-minute lecture about how _wrong_ he is, but a tentative knock on the door interrupts him.  Argument forgotten, they creep to the door, Fletcher looking through the peephole as Andrew stands by his side.

“Who is it?” Andrew whispers.  A thousand scenarios run though his mind on who could be outside the door: the FBI, his dad, a reanimated corpse of one of their victims.  He fights the urge to clutch at Fletcher’s arm.

“It’s your faggy little boyfriend,” Fletcher snarls.

“I don’t have a _boyfriend_.” Andrew almost adds, _but if I did you'd be mine_ , but that's just too weird to think about.

Fletcher steps back and unlocks the door.  “Get rid of him.”

Andrew sighs. He knows it has to be okay or Fletcher wouldn’t let him open the door, but his non-explanation is infuriating (something he does too often, such as forcing Andrew to try new food — “what’s this?” “just eat it.” “but what does it taste like?” “you’ll find out when you eat it.” “but what if it’s gross?” “if you don’t try this so help me god I will shove it down your throat”).

The blond street drummer is on the other side of the door, the ugly hat now on his head.

“Uh, hi.” Blondie’s nervous gaze goes from Andrew to Fletcher, who stands looming behind Andrew.  “I hope you don’t mind but I saw where you went and you kind of left in a hurry…”

Not so much a hurry as an all out sprint, Andrew thinks.  “And?”

The guy shifts on his feet, and then holds up a paper bag.  “I thought you should have this.  You earned it. And you taught me a lot of cool things. So.”

When Andrew sees the contents of the bag, his eyes widen in shock.  “There must be a hundred dollars in here!”  He shows the bag to Fletcher and there it is, all in small bills and change.

“Ninety-one and half, actually,” the guy says.  “And that’s all in the hour you were playing.”

Not as good of pay as performing at a Manhattan club, but he’ll take what he can get. “Thanks.”

Blondie rubs at the back of his neck.  “You’re really good, you can make mad dough busking around here.  Maybe we can do it together, and you can teach me some things. If that’s okay with your dad, that is.”

“He’s not my fucking dad!” Andrew says at the same time as Fletcher says, “He absolutely will not!”

“Well,” Blondie says, obviously anxious to get away from them as soon as possible, “I’ll be at the same place tomorrow.  If you change your mind.”

When he’s gone, Andrew turns to Fletcher. 

“You can’t stop me,” Andrew says.  Fletcher just mutters, “We’ll see,” and shuffles off into the room.

 

•••

 

But the strangest thing is that Fletcher lets him. 

The next morning, Andrew makes a lot of noise waking up, setting the phone’s alarm on the highest volume and slamming the bathroom door shut, to ensure that it wakes Fletcher up. As he dresses and grabs his sticks out of his bag he expects Fletcher to stop him and tell him that he isn’t allowed to go, but he doesn’t.  Fletcher watches him get ready with an intrigued scrutiny, and does not say anything to him as he rolls out of bed and starts up the coffeepot.

“I’m leaving,” Andrew says at the door, giving him one last chance.

“See ya later alligator,” Fletcher says flatly.  He doesn’t even bother to fake the enthusiasm to go with the statement.

Andrew slams the door behind him.

 

•••

 

Blondie — Cooper, he insists that Andrew calls him — is thrilled when Andrew joins him. He’s even more excited when he sees the expensive brand of sticks that Andrew has.

Thirty minutes into the session (Andrew can’t think of it as anything else but that), Fletcher comes out of their motel room and leans against the wall, watching them play.  At first, Andrew glances across the street to him often, but the interval between looks lessen at each reassurance that he’s still there, until three hours in and Andrew looks up and Fletcher isn’t there. There’s an instant surge of panic, but he calms when he sees that the dusty Oldsmobile is still parked in the motel parking lot and the light is on in their room. 

At the end of a four-hour session, they make four hundred and sixty-five dollars between them. They split it down the middle, with Cooper getting the extra dollar because he provides the equipment.  It’s only fair.

The door is unlocked when Andrew comes back, and he flings it open, letting it bang against the wall.

Fletcher looks up from the single armchair and places the newspaper he had been reading in his lap. “And so he returns.”

Andrew tosses the brown sack of money to Fletcher as he walks up to him.  “Lunch is on me.”

Fletcher peeks in the bag, then up to Andrew.  “Do you think this makes you the breadwinner?”

“No,” Andrew says, stripping off his sweaty clothes and leaving them in a heap on the floor. “We still have our joint business. This is extra.”

Fletcher is busy scowling at the clothes on the floor as Andrew goes into the bathroom to shower. A minute after he starts the water, he hears Fletcher come into the room. 

“Next time you should play some contemporary things other than jazz,” Fletcher says, and Andrew smirks — he knew Fletcher had been listening to him play.  Fletcher continues, “It’ll have a wider appeal to people. And you should wear sunscreen.”

It’s after Fletcher leaves and he’s washing his hair that Andrew realizes: he was granted permission.

It feels like his leash is getting lengthened.

 

•••

 

Over the next couple weeks, their lives fall into a natural cadence. 

A few days a week Andrew performs with Cooper across the street from their shitty motel, and Fletcher keeps a close watch — sometimes drinking coffee while standing against the door jam of their room, other times he jogs past them as he runs laps around the block.  And two weeks into Andrew’s street performance gig, Fletcher sits on the curb next to them during their session, and he bitches at and criticizes Andrew the entire time. 

“I don’t get it,” Cooper says in hushed tones to Andrew.  Fletcher has already gone back to the motel but he says it quietly as if Fletcher could hear him anyway, “It’s not even the age difference thing.  Having a sugar daddy or whatever is cool but, like…”

“What?” Andrew asks. He didn’t make any attempt to hide the nature of his and Fletcher’s relationship; there isn’t any need to when there’s nobody around they know, and it’s nothing Andrew is ashamed of.

Cooper struggles for his words.  “He’s so mean to you!”

Andrew laughs and waves a hand dismissively.  “Oh that’s nothing,” he says, but Cooper’s narrows his eyes in disbelief, and Andrew realizes this is why he prefers only being in Fletcher's company.

“Really,” Andrew says. “ And I’m pretty cruel to him, too.” But not as bad as him, Andrew does not add.

Cooper shrugs and stacks his buckets together.  “Does he beat you?”

“Only when I want him to.”

And then Cooper looks up, confused, but then grins.  “ _Oh,_ I get it. Kinky.”

Andrew blushes.

 

•••

 

Their names have long since faded from the media; there are too many victims for any particular ones to garner individualized attention. 

The Dyad Killer, on the other hand, has become a nation wide phenomenon.  Potential victims try to hide in plain sight — balding men wear hats on their head and young dark-haired men avoid eye contact with anyone in public — and there is a small undercurrent of mass hysteria, because there’s no information about the whereabouts of the killer or how they select their targets other than their appearance.  Many call it “careless slaughter” because it doesn’t follow typical serial killer modus operandi.  With most serial killers, they have an almost specialized worship of those they kill, but with the Dyad it’s done in neat but unextravagant methods — whatever gets the job done, and it’s never the same.  Analysts say this is why the Dyad Killer is so successful; it’s nothing personal, with maybe a touch of rage.

There’s a special edition of TIME magazine dedicated to it.  The front cover has black and white pictures of all fifty-six victims (so far). Andrew and Fletcher’s photos are side by side in the third row; Andrew’s picture is one he had taken for professional purposes after he started working for Fletcher, and Fletcher’s is from when he worked at Shaffer. 

Andrew flips through the magazine, going through victim profiles and cross checking them with the large map where they’ve been marking their kills.  He walks his fingers across the worn paper, fingertips touching scribbled stars that go city to city.

It’s a documentation of how he got to where he is.  He remembers every place.

 

•••

 

“We should get fake IDs,” Fletcher says.  It’s the middle of the day on a Tuesday, and they’re at the beach, spread out on towels enjoying the tolerable September sun.  “Start building up identities.”

“Okay,” Andrew says, because what else is there to say.  It’s their life, now.

Cooper knows a guy who knows a guy; they explain their need for fake identification because they're hiding from Andrew's dad who does not approve of their relationship (that part isn't a lie).  The place where Cooper tells them to go smells like weed and Fletcher is ready to walk out right then but Andrew tells him, “Did you really expect someone who makes fake IDs to have a reputable business?”

The guy doesn’t ask questions, he just takes their hundred dollars and Fletcher fills out some paperwork and twenty minutes later get their new identifications.

When Andrew sees the name on his card, he’s ready to murder Fletcher.

_Charlie._

But he isn’t as mad once he sees the name Fletcher assigned to himself: _Jo._

It’s like their own twisted form of romance.

 

•••

 

“The Dyad is close by,” Cooper says as he adjusts his buckets.

“Really?” Andrew makes an effort to sound nonchalant, but then realizes that he probably should appear to be concerned. It’s how a normal person would react when they hear that a serial killer is nearby.

“Yeah. I saw on the news this morning that there were two more murders over the weekend in San Diego.”

Andrew has a sudden memory of his weekend: him and Fletcher throwing two lifeless bodies (strangled, one for each) into a San Diego dumpster.  He takes a deep breath — Cooper doesn’t know he did it, how could he — but his hands shake all the same.

It takes a moment to realize it’s the _thrill_ of being talked about that makes his hands shake, not fear.

“How terrible,” Andrew says. He twirls his sticks in his hands. “Shall we begin?”

 

•••

 

Andrew walks back to the motel, alone and buzzed from the few drinks he had with Cooper after their morning drumming session.  The afternoon drinks had been impromptu and Andrew didn’t tell Fletcher where he was going, but he figures that Fletcher will be okay with it after Andrew gives him the bottle of whiskey.  Well, a half-empty bottle of whiskey, no, a half- _full_ bottle — Andrew is an optimist.

He’s stumbling down one of the more sketchy streets in the neighborhood when he hears, “Hey, pretty boy,” called out to him.  He turns his head and there is some creepy-looking man leering at him. 

Andrew gestures to himself, as if asking, _who, me?_ even though he must be, because there is nobody else around.

The man nods enthusiastically and steps closer to him.  “How much?”

“How much what?”

“How much does it cost for you to suck my dick,” the guy says, “and for anything else?” 

When Andrew holds his hands up, the liquor in the bottle swooshes around.  “I don’t do that,” he says, and then turns to leave, get the hell away, and never use this road again. 

But the sleazy guy grabs Andrew’s wrist and jerks him back to him. 

“You will if I want you to,” the man growls, and _fuck_ this is bad, really bad, Andrew realizes.  He struggles to get out of the man’s hold but his arm is twisted and he can’t move, and the man is palming him though his pants and this is probably in the top three worst things that’s ever happened to him. 

It’s when he’s thinking about how he doesn’t like being overpowered by anyone other than Fletcher that he notices: his assailant is bald, probably mid-fifties, white. 

It gives him enough ammunition snap out of it.  In a quick motion, Andrew smashes the bottle against the man’s head and jabs the broken glass shard he’s holding in the guy’s neck, twisting it around deep. When he rips it out, a curve of blood spurts out and splatters onto Andrew’s shoulder, and Andrew has to put his hand over the man’s mouth to stifle his scream. 

The man lets go of Andrew, clutching at his neck as blood pours over his fingers. It takes about three seconds for him to drop to his knees, and five more for him to fall face down into a puddle of blood and whiskey.

And just like that, Andrew’s nerves are soothed.

 

•••

 

Fletcher knows it as soon as he sees Andrew.  He must recognize the _look_ of Andrew coming from a fresh kill, sense the electric charge, smell the rush pulsing in his blood. That, and the blood staining his shirt and hand is a pretty big giveaway.  But the point is: he knows that Andrew broke the rule, that he killed without him.

“What the _fuck_ did you do?” Fletcher yells, following Andrew into the bathroom.

Andrew scrubs at his hands and arms, washing blood away and down the sink, and says, “What I had to do.”  He sobered up fast after the incident, adrenaline overriding all his senses, and now he sees the whole thing with perfect clarity.  Fletcher is saying something, or he isn’t, but when the water runs clear, Andrew towels off and pushes past Fletcher into the only other room in their rented space. He slumps into the chair and closes his eyes. 

“You did a kill on your own,” Fletcher says, and when Andrew opens his eyes he sees Fletcher standing in front of him, arms crossed in front of his chest and looking beyond furious. 

“Why, you jealous?” Andrew asks. He continues before Fletcher can speak. “It’s fine.  I made sure to clean up after myself so you don’t have to worry about me getting us caught.”  After the guy had died, Andrew gathered up the glass from the broken bottle and threw bits of it away in separate trashcans, just in case the feds were to check the fingerprints on the glass. 

Fletcher fumes. “You’ve gone full-blown psychopath. You need to be institutionalized. In fucking Azkaban.”

“You could never be jailed in Azkaban because you have no soul for the Dementors to feed off of.”

For a moment Andrew thinks that Fletcher is going to hit him, and honestly, it would be a welcome embrace. At least then the argument would be over and they could move on.

But Fletcher doesn’t hit him, he just sighs and runs a hand over his head, against the smooth front to the hair that lines the base of his skull.

“You can’t do that again,” Fletcher says, berating.  “I don’t know why you murdered him, we were going to go to Fresno in a few days to knock off a pair, but you couldn’t wait to get your crazed, blistery hands—”

“He tried to solicit sex from me.”  Andrew says it short, flippant.  “And when I said no, he tried to force me.  Then I stabbed the motherfucker in the neck.  Okay?  Goddamn.”

Fletcher is silent for a long minute.  He sits on the foot of the bed, across from Andrew, and rests his chin on his clasped-together hands. Andrew hadn't planned to tell him, but he feels like he had to tell — that he has to confess everything to him.

Andrew waits for his verdict.

“Well, you do look like a cocksucker,” Fletcher finally says.

Andrew blinks. “You aren’t understanding. I was like, molested! He groped me.” He brushes back hair that fell onto his forehead, taking the opportunity to break eye contact momentarily. “I’m fine, or whatever, but it was gross.”

Fletcher’s expression is unreadable, a blank slate as he eyes Andrew up and down. Andrew doesn’t know what to expect from him, but he guesses that Fletcher decides that he’s alright because he says, “You know if you weren’t so fucking crazy, you wouldn’t be here, and you wouldn’t have gotten fondled.” 

Son of a bitch, it’s the same damn thing Fletcher has been at since the beginning, and Andrew is _done_ with it.

“You’re always blaming this shit on me, but it’s your fault!” Andrew yells.  “You’re the one who drove me fucking crazy!”

Fletcher laughs a simple _ha._ “I wondered how long it would take for you to blame me. A grand total of four months, which is much longer than I expected.”

He doesn’t need Fletcher to tell him how long it’s been; he has resisted saying it for a very long time.

“But it’s true,” Andrew insists. “I was perfectly fine until I met you.”

“If that’s what you want to tell yourself.”

“I am not insane,” Andrew says.  “Your sanity, however, is arguable.”

“Are you living in some fantasy world where we aren’t murderers?  We’re considered _serial killers_ , Andrew.”  Fletcher leans in and puts his hands on either side of him on the armrests, and his steely gaze cuts into him.  “I hate to break it to you, but they’ve locked people up for a lot less. If we’re ever caught, just you wait — you think _I_ treat you badly — and if there’s a hell we are most certainly going to it.”

Andrew bites at his inner cheek.  “I’m surprised it’s bothering you this much, Fletch.”

It kind of puts a whammy on Fletcher; he stares at Andrew slack-jawed, his eyes wide and bright, and that vein that’s extra visible when he’s having one of his fits is twitching madly. It’s a sight to beholden, and Andrew burns it into his memory, placing it in mental encyclopedia of Fletcher. 

Then, he shuts down, turned off from the inside.   An emotional black hole. 

“Jesus fucking christ, you’re ridiculous.”  Fletcher stands. “I need to get away from you.”

Andrew couldn’t care less; let the bastard go.  He doesn’t say anything when Fletcher leaves, and he doesn’t move until the door slams shut, rattling the shitty cheap picture frames that are like the ones in every other motel in the country.

He can’t help but wonder if he would have stayed if he asked him to.

Andrew takes a shower, scrubbing until his skin hurts and the water runs cold, and then he continues then some. When he stands in front of the mirror, he sees that his shoulder is red where he rubbed his skin raw with the washcloth. He winces when he touches it. It doesn’t hurt that bad. He furrows his brows, and presses his thumb into his collarbone until it hurts a lot and thinks his bone may snap. 

After, he throws away the bloodstained shirt, tying it in another bag separately before putting with the other garbage.

No big deal.

 

•••

 

Fletcher must have gone to the beach, because when he comes backs three hours later he smells like saltwater and looks a little more tan than he did before he left. 

Andrew sits up in the bed. He isn’t going to apologize and he knows for damn sure that Fletcher isn’t either.

At some point he says Fletcher’s name, his _first_ name, a pointed and gravelly, “Terence.”

Fletcher doesn’t say anything.  He walks across the room, toeing out of his shoes and socks and stripping off his shirt as he goes. There’s an economy to how Fletcher moves, both fluid and mechanical as he pushes Andrew down down down into the mattress as he climbs on top of him, putting a knee between Andrew’s thighs and spreading them open.

Andrew tilts his head up to meet Fletcher’s.  When Fletcher kisses him, he slips his tongue in against his, and he wraps his fingers through his hair and gently tugs, positioning Andrew to how he wants him. Andrew moans keenly against his mouth, and when he shifts his hips he feels Fletcher’s hardness pressing against his leg. 

None of it really matters, as long as he always comes back.

They fuck roughly, with Andrew’s right leg hooked over Fletcher’s shoulder as Fletcher drives hard into him, all the way.  The slap of their skin against each other echoes horribly in the room, which makes Andrew lose it even more, and he lets loud fucked-out noises escape, short whines and grunts.  Above him, Fletcher grins but covers Andrew's mouth with his hand and says, "you sound like a whore, Andrew."

In spite, Andrew licks at his palm.  He tastes like salt water.  Fletcher retracts his hand and gives him a  _look_ that makes Andrew's eyes flutter shut, and then he starts to stroke Andrew.

Soon it's too much, with the weight of Fletcher on top of him and him smelling like the ocean and sex, and when Fletcher takes his hand off his dick and slaps him across the face, Andrew comes, cursing and spurting white streaks on his stomach. 

He’s vaguely aware when Fletcher comes a few moments later, his body tensing against his and saying something inaudible. Andrew’s leg falls from Fletcher’s shoulder and he lies flat, his heart slowing from the punch-drunk beat in his chest.  Fletcher all but collapses on top of him, breathing in deep inhales; he never likes to admit that Andrew can best him in endurance. 

When Fletcher regains mobility, he dips down and nips at the still tender place on Andrew’s shoulder.

“Stop,” Andrew says, but doesn’t really mean it.

 

•••

 

Later, Fletcher says against Andrew’s back, “If you hadn’t of killed him, I would’ve.” His arm is thrown across Andrew’s middle, his hand splayed against his ribs like he’s playing piano keys. “Nobody puts their hands on you but me.”

And Andrew is happy, because he knows Fletcher is sincere about it.  Nobody harms his possessions.

 

•••

 

Andrew tries to pinpoint when the dissolution of his self occurred, but after going over it in his mind he realizes the process is actually an evolution.  He can’t become _less_ , nothing can be taken away, he exists as a whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I first had Andrew be the one to explain what a fuckboy is but then I realized that no, it would be Fletcher. I mean, he's the one that knew about the double rainbow meme!
> 
> I'm sorry I make Andrew have more suffering. Sadly, it's not over yet.


	9. dust bowl dance.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> California, part two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song of the chapter: ["Dust Bowl Dance"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Z2yY5GhDto) by Mumford and Sons.
> 
>  _Extra content warning:_ physical abuse!!! more canon levels than it's been, and probably a bit more. So. Yeah.
> 
> Thank you all for yor continued support! I love you all more than Andrew loves the drums!

Andrew wonders if he should be more concerned. Concerned because—

—Fletcher had agreed to take Andrew out on a double date with Cooper and his girlfriend. Out, on a date, which they have never officially done (although Andrew is sure that going to museums, or visits to diners at 3 AM after a kill qualify as one, somewhat). But this is going to be a  _double date,_ which is so un-Fletcher-like, even though he had used air quotations when he told Andrew about it.

“You shouldn't spend so much time alone with him. He's getting too friendly,” Fletcher explains as he gets ready. “As he's a musician and has an obsession with the Dyad Killer, it's plausible that he could uncover the truth about us.”

“Or you could just be jealous that you aren't getting all of my attention,” Andrew says. He hasn't dressed yet; everything he's put on Fletcher has scowled at in disapproval. “No need to worry though, I'm not sleeping with him.”

Fletcher scoffs. “I know your dick isn't going to stray far from me.”

“Only because yours doesn’t stray from me,” Andrew responds, and then under his breath says, “homo.”

“I heard that!” Fletcher says, and because Andrew had expected it he is able to dodge Fletcher's slap.

Regardless of the reason, they end up sitting next to each other in a booth, across from Cooper and his age-appropriate girlfriend. It’s awkward, especially after Fletcher orders food for Andrew without Andrew’s input.

“So how did you two meet?” the girlfriend asks, breaking the silence, and Cooper says, “Yeah, you've never mentioned that.”

That’s a good question — how _did_ they meet? Andrew knows the real story, the secret one for only himself and Fletcher, the one where fate led them together in a dark classroom.  Andrew would say, _I knew it from the first time we met, when he asked me if I knew who he was_ , but he obviously cannot share that version.

He stumbles over his words and he’s mildly embarrassed, but he feels Fletcher’s hand at his back, rubbing at his shoulder blade. 

“We met at a book club,” Fletcher simply answers, and Andrew breathes out a sigh of relief; Fletcher is always the best at fabricating lies.  Fletcher adjusts his glasses, and continues, “He really liked my analysis on _The Natural_ , I guess, because he wouldn’t stop flirting with me until I took him out to a bar, even though he was only nineteen at the time.  He was a gawky little dork.”  He looks to Andrew and tilts his head.  “Isn’t that right?” 

“Yes,” Andrew agrees. “And the rest, uh, well...here we are.”

After a moment, Cooper says, “Huh,” which Andrew and Fletcher both respond to with “What?”

“It’s just…so tame,” Cooper says, shrugging.

It makes Fletcher laugh really hard, and the others laugh with him.  Lightheartedly.  Andrew does not laugh.  In fact, the normalcy of it kind of makes Andrew sick.

“Cheer up,” Fletcher says, patting Andrew’s arm.  Andrew looks to him and sees that he’s smiling.  He has too many teeth.

 

•••

 

“What did you see in me?” Andrew asks.  “Tell me again.”

“No,” Fletcher says, his voice muffled by the pillow. 

After dinner they had come back to their room and had a nice booze-addled fuck, and now it’s late and they’re laying side by side in the dark.

It’s too quiet for Andrew. 

“Please tell me,” Andrew says, curling his body against Fletcher’s.  “Remind me.”  He needs to know; sometimes he loses track.

Fletcher kicks him in the shin, but barely enough to hurt.  “You’re fishing for compliments,” he says. 

“So?”

Fletcher sighs, and gives in.  “I thought that you had potential — shut up, goddamn!  See, this is why I don’t pander to you.  Your ego explodes,” Fletcher says when Andrew makes a positively pleased hum at Fletcher’s praise.

“Don’t stop,” Andrew whispers.

“And if you didn’t reach my expectations,” Fletcher says, “I thought you’d be fun to break.”

Andrew doesn’t say that he _did_ break him, for a while. Or that he had left him broken and Andrew had mended himself back together the best he could.

 

•••

 

It’s beautiful. 

“I knew you’d be happy,” Cooper says. 

Andrew tears his gaze away from the drum kit and its glory, all rounded edges and chrome and shine and refuge.

“Happy?” Andrew says, “I’m over the fucking moon.”

It’s the longest he’s ever been without it, longer than his self-inflicted isolation of it during the gap between his expulsion from Shaffer and the JVC show, and its absence has left a void that nothing else can fully appease. He’s missed it so _so_ much. He almost feels silly to think of an inanimate object in such a way, but then he doesn’t, because the drums are alive, springing to life when he touches them, and they become one in the same.

He steps up to the set and taps one of the cymbals, and the sweet ring of it fills the air, resonating and hitting him somewhere in the middle of his chest.

“Right…,” Cooper says slowly, conscious he’s interrupting a private moment.  “My friend said we could use it this morning, so. Why don’t you show me what you can do with a real set and not some overturned buckets?”

 _Oh, I almost forgot,_ Andrew thinks when he sits on the throne and presses his foot against the foot pedal, his hands moving over the kit, rolling out familiar songs and tempos.  It’s like he’s been living with one of his lungs punctured and had grown used to the compensating for the loss, but he suddenly has a full capacity again and is breathing as he’s made to.

 

•••

 

Andrew gets the suspicion that Cooper is afraid of him.  He thinks this not because of his words, but because of his actions. Fletcher has taught him how to read people’s body language, how to zero in on micro-expressions and exploit them to control, and right now he’s getting the sense that Cooper wants to distance himself from him.

“Wow, dude. Um.”  Cooper shoves his hands in his pockets.  “That was something.” 

 _Maniac_ , Andrew seeing himself as he sees him. 

Sweat drips from his hair onto his face.  Andrew briefly looks down at his hands — a mangled mess, fresh with new open blisters, pain he doesn’t feel until he witnesses its byproduct — and wipes at his forehead with his shirt sleeve instead.  He blots his hands on his shirt, leaving patchy red handprints scattered on his front.

He looks for something to use to wipe blood off of the drum set.  He can’t leave behind evidence.  Cooper tosses him a bandana, and Andrew scrubs it off.  It doesn’t take him long. It’s a practiced motion — he’s been cleaning his blood off of things for a long time, now.

“Here,” Cooper says, handing Andrew something as they leave the kit behind (gone, again). “To take the edge off.”

Andrew looks in his hand. Three joints sit cradled in his palm, like parenthesis.

“I’m fine,” Andrew says, trying to return them.  He _is_ fine, he's a lot better than he has been in a long time, still euphoric from his most gratifying indulgence. Besides that, he’s been this long without anything and he would actually like to see how long he can go without.

“No, really.” Cooper closes Andrew’s hand, curling his fingers and careful not to touch Andrew's blisters.  “You need to relax.  Plus, you could always use a break from your partner.”

Andrew screws up his face. _Partner_?, he thinks, because Cooper must mean Fletcher and that’s jarring, and he thinks about it some more and he shoves the offering in his pocket.

 

•••

 

He really needs to stop coming back to Fletcher covered in blood. 

“It’s not someone else’s,” Andrew says as he opens the door, explanation ready ahead of time. “It’s mine.”

Fletcher looks up from the game of chess that he’s playing against himself.  “And why do you—,” he begins, but he catches sight of the blood seeping though the self-made bandages on Andrew’s hands and the red-tinted sticks in Andrew’s pocket, and he stops.

“You found a drum set.” He says it calmly, matter of fact.

“Yeah,” Andrew says, pleased that he didn’t have to admit it himself, even though he practiced the confession the entire walk home.  “I played at—”

Fletcher bolting across the room like an animal advancing on prey is not a surprise — Fletcher often lunges toward him in threatening ways, a leftover of his scare tactics — but the hand at Andrew’s throat _is_ a surprise.  Fletcher’s grabbed his throat before; while they fuck his hand will sometimes find its way to Andrew’s throat and apply just enough pressure so that Andrew has to work a little harder for air, or once in a while when they’re talking he will give Andrew’s neck a light squeeze as an indicator that it’s time for him to shut up. In both of those instances it’s nothing; enjoyed and requested, even.

But this — this is _vicious._   It’s been a long time since Fletcher’s behavior has had any real malice behind it, but Andrew has no trouble detecting when Fletcher goes over that fine line of just enough to keep him corralled, and encroaching the area of the intention to cripple.

Andrew tries to wrestle out of his grip, but Fletcher grabs his shoulder and forces him back, until Andrew stumbles backwards into the door.  Andrew's head bangs against the door with a thud and he’s dizzy, but only for a moment because Fletcher tightens his hand and his full focus is on Fletcher’s undeniable rage.

“Let me go!” Andrew rasps. He lifts his head up, like someone trying to keep from submerging underwater, and gasps in a deep breath of air. With it, he yells, “Stop it, you crazy son of a bitch!” and manages to spit in Fletcher’s face. 

It doesn’t seem to faze Fletcher, he just wipes away the saliva on his cheek and goes back to holding Andrew’s shoulder trapped against the door.  He forces the heel of his other hand into Andrew’s throat, completely constricting his air supply.  Andrew pounds on Fletcher’s chest, thrashing and pounding hard enough to hear the impact of his fist hitting him, but Fletcher doesn’t let go, and eventually the burning pain tearing in his lungs is too much and he clings to Fletcher’s shirt instead, hanging on to the thin cotton like a lifeline.

“Didn’t I say to not play on a drum set?” Fletcher says, leaning in, his voice acidic in Andrew’s ears. “That you weren’t allowed?”

And then there’s sweet relief — Fletcher releases the hold on his neck.  Andrew gulps down the humid air, coughing a bit, and tears form at the corner of his eyes.

Fletcher’s hand hovers over Andrew’s neck, palm brushing against ever so lightly against his skin. It's like a reminder to keep him in line.

“Well?” Fletcher asks.

Andrew glares at him. “Fuck you,” he says, rasping.

He’s expecting it this time when Fletcher seizes him.  Fletcher grabs him with the same ferocity that he closes his fist to silence a song, strong and digging in his fingers so hard that he feels his fingernails cutting into the skin of his neck.  Andrew dissociates from it and has a macabre sense of curiosity to test how far Fletcher will go, to see if Fletcher actually would kill him, because he doubts it but he isn’t really sure and that’s _curious_ to him. He knew Fletcher was dangerous, but he's always wondered how much, and if there is a limit. Would he go so far to totally destroy him — Andrew needs to know how committed he is.

But then his ever-present survival instinct kicks in. That, Fletcher could never take from him.

“You’re fucking hurting me!” Andrew chokes out, his throat bobbing against Fletcher’s hold. Fletcher does not slacken his grip. Maybe it's because he didn't understand Andrew's mangled plea.

In his daze, Andrew thinks of a boa constrictor, or quicksand — the more you struggle, the more it ensnares you.

So Andrew stills, and places his hand on Fletcher’s wrist that is strangling him, wrapping his fingers around bony joints.  “Fletcher,” he says softly, strained with his limited breath.

The docility of it catches Fletcher’s attention, and he looks at Andrew, _really_ looks at him, and his mouth parts and just like that, he frees him, his hand falling and trailing down Andrew’s side.

Andrew is still catching his breath when Fletcher says, “Pack up your shit, we’re leaving.”

He knew that Fletcher wouldn’t have killed him.  Trusted him not to.  He’s seen him take a life, and he never has as much passion killing someone as he does with Andrew. It makes Andrew reassured that Fletcher would never hurt him too badly.

Andrew can’t help it if he inspires it in Fletcher.  Darkness can only make something that’s already dark, darker.

 

•••

 

When they leave Santa Monica, Andrew thinks _good riddance_. Six weeks is too long to stay in one place after months of constantly moving.  Neither of them does well at a halt.

So they head north, and Andrew goes with Fletcher, because why the hell not. It’s not even a question (there had been a moment of hesitance from Fletcher when they walked to the car, as if he expected Andrew to pass by it and keep on walking). The ride is silent — they’re both still too pissed at each other to talk.  Which is fine.  It gives Andrew time to think, and it’s kind of hilarious having Fletcher seethe across the table at him as they eat their In-N-Out burgers.

It isn’t until they hit standstill traffic around Sacramento that they speak.

Andrew is inspecting his neck in the tiny mirror on the flip-down sunshade, fingertips tracing over bruising Fletcher left behind.  Angry blue-black stripes circle his throat, a perfect sketch of the curl of Fletcher’s fingers.

“I’m sorry I tried to strangle you when you made me angry.”

Andrew looks over and sees that Fletcher is turned towards him and fully fixated. 

Knowing he’s looking, Andrew touches his handiwork, placing his hand on top and matching it. “Wow. What an apology,” Andrew says. Maybe a couple months ago Andrew would’ve accepted it as holy, but now, it’s hollow.  It’s hard to accept an apology when you don’t know what’s going to follow it.  He takes everything from Fletcher on a moment-by-moment basis. 

“You ungrateful shithead,” Fletcher snaps, his knuckles a tense white on the steering wheel, like he’s restraining himself from escalating.  Andrew thinks, _good, bring it_ , his hand falling to his lap, ready.

But Fletcher takes a deep breath. Calms.  Restarts.  “Honestly. I’m sorry I had to hurt you,” he says, and reaches over and tucks a stray unruly curl behind Andrew’s ear. The touch is feather light and it makes Andrew’s stomach flutter and _goddamn._

Fletcher is an oxymoron, a whiplash between inflicting brutal misery and tactful attentiveness of knowing exactly what Andrew wants.  He acts with autonomy — it’s his biological imperative.  He is own sovereign, and only does what benefits him. Sometimes, he acts to make himself more likable to Andrew. So when he doles out those almost amiable interactions, Andrew snatches them up (no matter what the real intention behind them are).

Andrew bites his bottom lip. “I think you over reacted just a bit.” 

Fletcher shrugs. “I had to enforce some kind of punishment.  I gave you a lot of leeway, but you still deliberately went against my word.”

“It was just fucking around on a kit, I wasn’t performing or anything, jesus christ.”

The traffic opens up, and Fletcher lurches the car forward.  “You do nothing in moderation, Andrew,” he explains.  “Before long, you’d be back to playing all the time and that could expose you.  Us.”

“That’s quite a dramatic leap,” Andrew says.  “You don’t know what I would’ve done.”

“I don’t?” Fletcher asks. “I know you, Andrew.”

Andrew considers it; Fletcher is right.  After playing, he had already been thinking of how he could use the drum set again, whether he had to beg, borrow, or steal.  Or kill.

His silence answer enough, Fletcher sighs.  “You messed it up.”

Andrew didn’t even know that there had been something _to_ mess up.  Living in a slightly less shitty two-room motel is far from utopia, and nothing with them will ever be ideal.

“It’s been really hard not being able to play,” Andrew admits, and looking ahead at the road, Fletcher says, “I know.”

He supposes that he does, in some way.  Jazz is integrated into his being, too.  It makes them restless.

“I was just doing what I’m meant to do, especially in the context of you” Andrew says, his hands palms up in his lap.  He needs to change his bandages, they’re bleeding though, like red ink blotting though the other side of a page. “Because you’ve been doing what you’ve done since you’ve known me.” 

Fletcher scoffs. “And what’s that?”

“Control me.” 

The Fletcher yanks the steering wheel to a sharp right, and the car jerks to the side with it, careening though lanes of traffic.  As Andrew gets thrown to the side, he clings to the handle on the ceiling that his dad always jokingly called the ‘oh shit bar.’  For a moment he is afraid they’re going to wreck, and one car accident because of Fletcher is one too many already, and this isn’t how he thought he was going to die.

But somehow, by the grace of god or punishment from the devil, they survive.  They safely get to the side of the highway, car vibrating as it drives over the bumps on the shoulder of the road, and comes to abrupt halt.

Andrew unbuckles his seatbelt and rounds on Fletcher.  “What the _fuck_ was that?” 

Fletcher puts the car in park.  “I’m too old for this melodramatic bullshit.  You drive.”

Andrew is about to point out that he’s not the one who almost just killed them, but Fletcher’s already out the car and walking around to the passenger side, so Andrew sighs and opens his door.

It’s nighttime, and headlights illuminate them every few seconds as cars fly by.  A few people honk at them, but Andrew doesn’t blame them; if he saw two people on the side of the highway, standing outside a dusty metal heap of a car and shouting at each other, he’d do the same.

“Your fuck ups can get us caught,” Fletcher says, voice raised over the whooshing of the passing cars.  Their shirts flutter in the wind.  “And you need to accept the goddamn truth and stop being such a pathetic sniveling faggot because I hurt your feelings.  I needed to do something to reinforce the seriousness of this situation in that halfwit retarded excuse you call a brain.”

Beyond the insults, Andrew sees the truth in it.  It _is_ serious, and he’s seen enough movies and watched enough real crime television to know that the simplest mistakes can end you.

So. Maybe he did need a reality check.

But still, he really just wants to kick him in the balls. 

So Andrew does, hiking his knee up and jamming it into his crotch.  Fletcher wheezes out, doubling over, his face red in the dim light, and lets out a string of curses.  It’s fucking glorious, Andrew decides, as he stands with his arms crossed in front of him and watches Fletcher suffer.

After a few deep breaths, Fletcher composes himself, stands upright and straightens his clothes.

“Satisfied?” Fletcher asks. “Got it out of your system?”

“I think so.”

“Then get in the fucking car.” 

When they get in, Fletcher jams one of the pawnshop cassettes in the deck — Miles Davis — reclines in the passenger seat, takes Andrew’s sunglasses out the glove compartment and puts them on. 

“Don’t stop driving until I say so,” he instructs.

“Roger, wilco.”

Andrew knows it isn't right. Despite what Fletcher says, Andrew does know the difference between right and wrong — but he just can't bring himself to care.

And Fletcher _did_ say he was sorry, which is a lot more than what Andrew had expected. So there's that.

But the thing is, he's starting to have trouble sorting out the truths and the lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm awful, I'm trash


	10. another set of issues.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contact high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Another Set of Issues"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wnaz-JhKRSM) by OK Go.
> 
> Extra content warnings for this chapter: recreational drug use, explicit sex.

The endless expanse of highway stretches out into the horizon without an end in sight. Much like his future.

Driving is a mindless task and Andrew zones out a little, with Fletcher’s soft snore and Nina Simone as calming background noise (the Miles Davis cassette repeated three times before Andrew changed it).  He counts the intervals that the streetlights pass; one every eleven seconds, an intermittent light that shines inside the car before it’s bathed in darkness again.

He looks out at the scenery. They’ve been though cities, mountains, seasides, deserts, open lands with nothing but grass, and each place is a different phase in their journey.  Now: they’re traveling though a massive forest that lines the highway, and there are trees so tall that Andrew can’t even see where they end in the night sky.

His thoughts wander, and he thinks about the forest and the road that runs though it, and how there were once more trees where the ground is paved.  Majestic trees ripped up from their home, just because people wanted to get to places faster, and why do things have to always get destroyed for convenience’s sake? 

He thinks about all those dead trees and it suddenly makes him really sad — it’s really unfair, and he wonders what his dad thinks about trees because they never talked about the environment that much, and what about all the of dead people, maybe they cared about the dead trees too, and he really wants to wake Fletcher up and talk to him about this but he knows that Fletcher would just laugh at him so he doesn’t, and he drives in silence and panics. 

He goes to grab his phone to distract himself with the CNN webpage — the road is empty and he isn’t going to wreck — and his fingers brush against something else in his pocket. 

It’s the pot that Cooper gave him.  He had forgot about it with everything that has happened in the past day.

He reaches over to the cigarette lighter, hoping that it works.  It’s like serendipity, the cigarette lighter does work, and he rolls up the window to start a bake in the car.

Andrew has never believed in Murphy’s Law — very rarely do things go entirely wrong.

 

•••

 

Fletcher wakes up coughing. 

“What is—?” he starts in alarm, tearing sunglasses off his face and looking over to Andrew in the driver’s seat.  But then he takes notice of the scene, and sits up and waves smoke out of his face. “Do not fucking tell me that you are smoking weed.”

Andrew laughs. “Okay then, I’m not,” he says, keeping his eyes on the road as he takes another hit and then slowly lets the smoke flow out of his mouth, watching as it curls in front of him. He had hardly thought about the consequences of smoking in the car; what could Fletcher do, try to choke him again?

“You insolent cocksucker, I’m going to—,” Fletcher says, but Andrew cuts him off with a dismissive hand wave.

“Relax. We’re in Oregon.”

Fletcher frowns. “Geographical location doesn’t mean anything. It’s still illegal to drive when you’re high.” 

“I’m fine. This stuff is weak.” Especially compared to the shit he used to take.  Right now, he’s extremely content, and it feels like his skin actually fits him and is not a size too small.

“You’ll be fine when I beat your ass.”

Andrew exhales in his direction.  “Man, you don’t even chill when you’re stoned.”

“I am _not_ stoned.” 

An unlikely story, as Fletcher’s eyes are super glassy and there’s a quality of befuddlement that isn’t natural on him.  Andrew tilts his head and gives him a knowing look _._ Confusion takes residence between Fletcher’s eyebrows, and he rubs his face and groans and yeah, Fletcher is high as fuck.

“Ass-fairy junky.” Fletcher glares at him, but it isn’t at all threatening.  “Infecting me with contact high.”

Andrew grins. “This your first time?” he asks, and there’s a certain amount of pride that for once he would be introducing Fletcher to something. 

“I was your age in the seventies,” Fletcher says gruffly.  “Take that as you will.”

“ _Oh_?  Do tell. Wait, oh my god, were you a hippie?”

“Shut the fuck up.” Fletcher holds out his hand. “Share, since you've already exposed me to this against my will."

 

•••

 

Fletcher vetoes driving while they are inebriated, so they get off the highway and check into the first vacant motel they pass.  The attendant hardly looks at them and couldn’t care less that they’re obviously stoned, and she seems unsurprised when they request that they pay with cash.

“She probably thinks I’m a hooker,” Andrew says as they walk around the building to their rented room. 

“Like I’d pay for you,” Fletcher says, “when you give it up for free.”

 

•••

 

“I considered joining the Marines.  My favorite color is chartreuse. I had to google ‘Johnny Utah’.”

“You’ve never really seen _Point Break_?” Andrew asks, and Fletcher shrugs noncommittally.  There’s a moment, and then Andrew says, “I am not surprised you don’t appreciate classic nineties cinema.”

“Classic nineties cinema is _Braveheart._ ”

“Ugh.”

Of all the things that have happened his life as of late — performing semi-professionally, running away, the murders — this would have to be the most improbable.  It’s beyond bizarre.

Here’s the scene: they lounge on the bed, both stripped down to only their shirts and underwear. Fletcher has his back against the headboard with his legs outstretched in front of him, and Andrew sits cross-legged next to him and his bare feet occasionally touch Fletcher’s thigh when he rocks forward in enthusiasm while speaking. They’re about eight rounds into the game “two lies and a one truth” — which is a cataclysm all on it’s own — and they’re smoking the rest of Andrew’s pot and eating vending machine food that on a normal day Fletcher would turn his nose up at.  It's all strangely comfortable.  It’s not so much divulgence of the soul than it is two people who know each other well enough to pick the other apart at the seams.

“Your turn,” Fletcher says, tossing an empty chip bag on the nightstand.

“Alright,” Andrew says, thinking.  “I’ve seen _The Godfather_ thirty-seven times. I’ve never been out of the country. I was born with six toes.”

“Although it wouldn’t surprise me if you were some kind of polydactyl freak, I’ve had the misfortune of seeing your toes,” Fletcher says, staring pointedly Andrew’s bare feet, as though making sure that they do only have five toes each.  “So, I’d say the first one.” 

“Actually, the second one is the truth.  I’ve seen the movie only thirty-six times.”  Andrew takes a hit, and passes the joint to Fletcher.  “It’s still enough to give a kick-ass impression of Marlon Brando. ‘You come into my house the day my daughter is to be married and you ask me…to do murder for money’.”

The embers glow orange in the dark, and Fletcher scowls.  “Stick to your day job.”

“I don’t have a day job,” Andrew says, and shoves a handful of Skittles in his mouth. He neglects to mention that the last time he tried to do what used to be his day job (morning, noon, and night job) Fletcher tried to choke him.

“Well then you’re shit out of luck.” 

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Andrew says, and then taps Fletcher’s arm, a casual touch that wouldn’t normally happen if they didn’t have an excuse.  It’s too personal, doesn’t serve a purpose other than reaching out to him just because he’s here and he can.  “Tell me some lies,” he says.

Fletcher’s arm tenses where Andrew touched him.  “Your tempo sucks.  I saw Charlie Parker perform live.  I like your hair red.”

“They’re all lies, that’s cheating!” Andrew says, but Fletcher shakes his head and gestures for him to try again.  Andrew sighs, and then says, “I contend it, but: the first one,” because even if Fletcher says it, it doesn’t mean it’s true.

“Wrong.” And Fletcher smiles, confidentially, like he knows a secret that Andrew doesn’t.  “I saw Bird when I was seven.”

Andrew sputters, and he’s not quite sure what is more surprising to him — the fact that Fletcher had the privilege of seeing Parker and breathing the same air as him, or that Fletcher was once seven years old.  It’s hard to imagine Fletcher as a child.  In Andrew’s mind Fletcher just _is_ , he came in the world fully formed as his magnetic and powerful self, all hard edges and insults, existing in the universe as a constant.

“My dad drove us to Chicago,” Fletcher says, letting the story unfold.  “I drank shirley temples while my dad got drunk and schmoozed with the local music community, and I really wanted to leave because I was bored. But then Charlie took the stage and started playing…”

His voice trails off and he stares at a distant spot on the wall.  Andrew isn’t sure if he realizes he stopped talking because become the weed has made him kind of spacy, so Andrew nudges him forward, saying, “And?”

Fletcher returns his gaze back to him, transfixed.  “I changed that day.” 

And there it is, the genesis behind Fletcher and his obsession with perfection.

Fletcher doesn’t have to explain it, because Andrew understands.  He remembers when the all-consuming passion struck him and changed him, for better or for worse.

He knows what’s on Fletcher’s mind — _they don’t make them like that anymore_ — but Andrew doesn’t say anything because then he’d have to hear Fletcher say something like, _well, except for maybe you, but you’ve fucked that to hell._   It would hurt too badly for both of them, a reminder of both of their failings. So instead they sit in silence and think of jazz and times past as the last of the smoke curls between them in wispy, white spirals.

“You know,” Andrew says after a while, leaning in towards Fletcher, “orgasms feel even better when you’re high.”

Fletcher tastes like cool ranch doritos when Andrew catches his mouth with his.  Fletcher growls into his mouth and puts a hand behind Andrew's neck to pull him closer, drawing Andrew in until he’s lying on top of him and writhing, already hard and pressing into him.

“Insatiable,” Fletcher says, licking at the imprints of bruises on Andrew’s neck, and Andrew answers with a sigh, too blissed out to respond with words. 

The process is quick, and Andrew ends up riding Fletcher, rocking his hips forward as he rises and lowers himself on him in quick, fluid movements.  His body seems to move on its own accord like he’s made to do this, and it feels so incredibly good, pleasure incinerating him from the inside out. He’s hypersensitive to everything — the muscles jumping in his thighs, the beads of sweat running down his back, the rapid beat of Fletcher’s heart beneath the hand pressed against his chest, the tiny praises that fall out of Fletcher’s mouth that he normally bites down on (“fuck, Andrew, like that, fuck”).  It’s encouragement for Andrew to grind down harder to seek his release, because he thinks he’s going to break apart and just die if doesn’t smoother himself with it.

“Slow down,” Fletcher says. He grabs Andrew, his hands circling his hips and holding him tight with his thumbs digging into his hipbones, and he guides him down, meeting him with sharp thrusts up. He drags Andrew away from the frenzied uneven fuck to something more reasonable, and when Andrew aligns, Fletcher mumbles, “That’s better.”

Andrew hums, and racks his hands up Fletcher’s chest to his shoulders and leans against him, his dick rubbing between their stomachs, giving him some friction that he’s been needing. He gasps, and pushes himself further down on Fletcher’s cock, and licks and bites at Fletcher’s collarbone until it produces a gruff fucked-out noise from Fletcher, deep and guttural in his throat. The sound of it makes Andrew laugh against his skin and he repeats the motion until Fletcher reaches around and smacks Andrew open-palmed on the ass.  Andrew jolts, but moans and buries his face into the crook of Fletcher's neck as Fletcher spanks him again.

“You get cheeky with my dick in your ass,” Fletcher grumbles in his ear, and Andrew feels the reverberations of every word, vibrating against his head and pinging around inside.

Andrew rolls his hips faster, not sure how much longer he can control himself, and he knows by the way Fletcher’s body shakes underneath him that he isn’t far from it, either. He sits back up, wanting to be able to see Fletcher’s face when he comes, wanting to be able to know that he’s the one who made him an unraveled mess.  To expose that vulnerability, however momentary, to know that he’s got to him.

When Andrew looks at Fletcher he sees that his pupils are blown wide, so much that there’s only a sliver of blue around them.  Like icicles on a dark night.  He cannot look away.

Andrew clutches at Fletcher’s hips and rocks his hips forward, showing off his untouched and straining erection that has pre-come leaking out from the tip. He whines out a desperate plea until Fletcher puts his hand around him, and Andrew almost sobs in relief when he touches him. Fletcher doesn’t stroke him, he just keeps a tight fist that Andrew fucks up into as he rides him and jerks his hips up. It doesn’t take long after that, with Fletcher touching him and the fullness that’s throbbing inside him, it all feeling so wonderful that he thinks he’s going to burst into a sunbeam.

When Andrew comes, he knows the he must be making noise, but everything is hushed out by a tinnitus-like drone in his ears.  He shoots on his stomach and spills over Fletcher’s fist as he continues to rock against him, clenching tight, fumbling at Fletcher’s hips for support to steady as tremors shake through his body.  He coasts his orgasm, but in his throes he’s aware of Fletcher giving one final thrust up and stilling, and of the warm wetness releasing inside him seconds later.

They don’t talk after, they just lie side by side as the come down from their highs. Andrew’s sprawled out with his ankle hooked over Fletcher’s leg, and he hums, positively content. He feels like he could melt into the mattress, satiated with weed and junk food and sex.

He’s about to doze, but he senses Fletcher moving next to him.  When he focuses on Fletcher he sees he’s on his side, propped up on his elbow.

“What?” Andrew says.

Fletcher doesn’t say anything.  He just cranes his neck forward and carefully puts his teeth to Andrew’s throat. Whether it’s a simple sign of affection or a possessive marking or a final blow, Andrew does not know.

 

•••

 

There’s a panther licking Andrew’s hands, devouring blood that’s running out of open wounds. It’s a dream, he knows it is because there’s that unsettling out of body lucid experience that makes reality twist and clues you into the fact that things aren’t right.  Despite the knowledge that it’s only a dream, it’s still really fucking scary because all he can think about is _oh my god what if it bites my hands off I could never play again_. The panther’s teeth keep brushing against his skin as it laps up the blood in his palms, and for a moment Andrew considers yanking his hands away but the animal glares at Andrew like it wants to rip him apart, and even though none of it is real he doesn’t want to go through the trauma of losing his hands. 

The panther nips at his hand and he tenses and cries out, and tries to get away but the panther holds him still and says, “Quit fucking squirming,” in a voice that is too too familiar, which is enough to catapult Andrew from unconsciousness.

Andrew slides his eyes open, and suddenly the dream makes sense.  Fletcher is sitting beside him and is looking very irritated as he holds Andrew’s left hand tightly around the wrist and dabs at raw blisters with a peroxide soaked cotton ball.  He doesn’t know that Andrew is awake yet because he’s too focused on the mess of Andrew’s hands, so Andrew watches him for a few minutes, curious to see how he treats him when he thinks he isn’t looking.

Fletcher is the same, blunt and without regard, and isn’t too careful with the most sensitive open blister that’s on the webbing between Andrew’s thumb and forefinger. Andrew hisses at the sting of the peroxide, and Fletcher’s eyes flit up to his.

“You were a panther,” Andrew mumbles, voice still groggy with sleep.  Fletcher quirks his brows at him, and Andrew clarifies, “In my dream.”

Fletcher sets the pink-tinted cotton on the nightstand, and opens a bandaid and places it on Andrew’s hand.  “You should have dreamt that I was kicking your ass because your hands are shitty again.”

Andrew does not dare say that there’s a part of him that likes to have his hands fucked up, that it’s part of his identity.  He suspects that would turn into another ‘reality check’ argument. 

“What time is it?”

Fletcher turns Andrew’s hand over in his, inspecting it, before letting it fall. “Late.  After three in the afternoon,” he says, and gets up from the bed. “A.K.A.: time to get the fuck up, Rip Van Winkle.”

The first thing Andrew notices when he sits up is the stack of his clothes on the dresser, freshly washed and folded.  Andrew rolls his eyes. Even though Andrew always shoves them in his bag, Fletcher continues to fold them, like he’s trying to train Andrew to pick up some of his neatness.

It’s then that he remembers the events of the previous night.  He looks from the neat stack of clothes to Fletcher, who’s standing at the foot of the bed, wearing a plain olive green t-shirt and jeans. He wonders if Fletcher remembers it too, and judging from the seriousness lining his face, he does.  He suspects now that Fletcher is back to his natural state he’s ready to punish him for accidentally-maybe-on-purpose drugging him. 

“You can be mad at me,” Andrew says, “but I think you needed it.”  Andrew will not apologize for letting the man unwind a bit. “You seemed to enjoy it.”

“I made an error in judgment.  That will never happen again.” Fletcher crosses his arms, defenses raised. “I went though your things to make sure you weren’t hiding any more substances from me.”

“I wasn’t!” 

“Yeah, well, how could I know?  You broke my trust.” 

Andrew mutters curses under his breath.  Like Fletcher ever had any faith in him to begin with.  To him, the only things he believes Andrew is capable of are: drumming halfway decent, being a homicidal psychopath, being fucked, and fucking up.

“I can _hear_ you.  Also: the junk food isn’t happening anymore.  You’re gaining too much weight.”

“That’s ridiculous, I’m a perfect size—,” Andrew protests, but stops when Fletcher rips the blanket away and jabs at his stomach.  “Quit it!”

“ _Quit it,_ ” Fletcher mimics him.  “Look, you’ve gotten bigger.  You were at a better weight a month ago.”

Andrew shoves Fletcher’s hand away and pulls the blanket back up to cover himself. “That because I was _starving_ then.  When we were in California we had enough money to eat three times a day.” He looks up at Fletcher, unblinking. “And you’re getting a little belly too, so.  Touché, motherfucker.”

It’s true, his stomach is no longer as defined and has grown soft, and Andrew knows that he must be self-conscious about it.  There’s a long hard minute, and then to his surprise, Fletcher reaches forward and ruffles his hair.

“Don’t take it so personally, damn,” Fletcher says.  “I never mean you any harm.” 

Now _that’s_ a lie if Andrew has ever heard one. Their primary goal is to hurt the other as much as possible.

 

•••

 

It’s been a while, so they go on a spree as they travel north.  Some frat boy who never saw it coming, his throat slit open easily. Some old fisherman alone on a dock who should have known better than to be alone — Andrew and Fletcher agree. A young guy with jet-black hair in a bar that Andrew flirts with, then lures outside where Fletcher is waiting to strike.  A hitchhiker that Andrew strangles in the backseat as Fletcher watches in the rearview mirror. 

There’s an agreement that they do it so that their legacy doesn’t lessen.  Unspoken, there’s something more — the engagement of a compulsion, but neither dares mention the dependency of it to the other.

“Do you ever think about who they were?” Andrew asks.  It’s something that he thinks of between the necessity of it.  “If they were good people?”

He needs to know what he thinks.  Fletcher has become his moral compass, even if he doesn’t point true north.  But it’s Fletcher’s true north, and that’s what matters. 

“What do you want me to say?” Fletcher asks, and Andrew breathes, “The truth.”

Fletcher sighs, like it’s way too late to be considering that.

“Nobody is truly a good person, Andrew,” Fletcher says, and that’s enough to appease Andrew. Even if Fletcher’s face twists up in the way that Andrew has learned is a lie.

 

•••

 

“There’s a lighthouse not too far away,” Andrew says.  He has his legs crossed in the seat — his shoes kicked in the floorboard — and pointing animatedly at the phone’s screen.  “They filmed _The Ring_ there.” 

“I’m going to throw the phone out the window if you keep suggesting sightseeing locations,” Fletcher says, and turns to glare at Andrew, as if to let him know he’s serious. “Or better yet, I’ll toss _you_ out of the car.”

Andrew rolls his eyes. Despite Fletcher’s steadfast instance that it’s _not_ a road trip, it kind of is, and they have a glove compartment full of brochures to prove it (the International UFO Museum in Roswell, the National Museum of Funeral History, the International Banana Museum, and the Kazoo Museum in South Carolina are some of the most notable ones).  However, it takes a lot of begging on Andrew’s part for them to visit places, and Fletcher blows off a lot of his requests.

“C’mon, Fletch! You said no to Carhenge—”

“Stupid.”

“—both Disney World and Disneyland—”

“Do I seem like someone who would enjoy the happiest place on Earth?”

“—and you vetoed Vegas all together!”

“It would’ve been too much temptation for you,” Fletcher says, definitively, acting as the expert on Andrew’s well-being.

In reality, it’s probably because Fletcher doesn’t want Andrew to have too much fun. Andrew suspects that Fletcher doesn’t want Andrew to get the idea in his head that he’s deserving of it. _You need to live in moderation_ , Fletcher has told him. He keeps what Andrew gets as piecemeal, and makes sure that Andrew’s only enjoyment is only what is derived from him.

“It’s just a lighthouse,” Andrew says, clipped, assuring him that it’s nothing more. “And besides, it’s not like we have anywhere we need to be.”

 

•••

 

It’s late afternoon when they get to the lighthouse that’s just a lighthouse.  At first it’s not that remarkable, it’s a red and white simple construction straight into the sky, but the more Andrew looks at it, he sees that it is quite exceptional.  A beacon of light to say: Here I am.  Don’t crash into me. 

Where Andrew is: at the edge of a rocky cliff, and there’s a sandy stretch of beach lined with tall grass, and in the distance there’s nothing but the ocean.  It would be easy to disappear, if he wasn’t already missing. 

They climb all one hundred fourteen steps of the lighthouse, winding in a narrow passageway, Fletcher leading the way with Andrew a step behind him.  The lantern room is empty when they reach the landing, and they wordlessly separate and inspect the room on their own. 

The lamp is a delicate construction of glass and steel, and the sunlight streams in and bounces off, reflecting iridescent around the small room.  Andrew catches one of the beams of light, putting his hand in front of it and stopping the refraction of light.  It shines golden and pink in his palm and he wiggles his fingers as it warms his hand.

His hand falls, and the light snaps back to where it’s supposed to be.

Andrew circles around the room and joins Fletcher, who’s by the railing and looking outside though the glass slats.  The view is really quite remarkable — a flat expanse of grass and sand and waves crashing against rocks, and for a moment it’s like they’re just observers, not a part of this place at all. 

Andrew takes out the phone and snaps a few pictures, and beside him he can hear Fletcher let out an irritated sigh.

He takes another picture of the ocean, then chances a moment, and takes a picture of Fletcher.

“Gotcha,” Andrew says and there’s the click of the fake shutter sound, and a second later he sees on the screen a live feed as Fletcher turns to him and scowls.  Andrew looks at the picture — it’s of Fletcher’s profile, eyes focused on something far off, jaw slightly clenched in annoyance, a moment captured right before.

He shows the picture to Fletcher, and says, “I guess you’re not a vampire after all.”

“You know I could push you off here and it’d look like an accident,” Fletcher says, gesturing to the open air on the other side of the barrier.  “You’d make a very satisfying _splat_ on the ground.”

“I’m sure you could. However,” Andrew says, tilting his head and smirking, “who would keep you warm at night?”

And Andrew knows he’s right, and judging by Fletcher’s expression, he knows too — discontent that he’s got used to having a manic boy under the sheets, cross that he’s let it get so far that Andrew can hold it over him.  Andrew is curious if Fletcher will try to deny it, if he will say that he can quit him at any damn time he wants, that he’s just using Andrew until something better comes along.  It seems like something Fletcher would do.  God forbid that Andrew has any leverage over him. There’s been enough cruel words and broken things for Fletcher to establish his control, and Andrew’s sure that Fletcher will take any means necessary to retain it.

Fletcher doesn’t though. His anger fades into something like acceptance, and turns away from Andrew and leans heavily on the railing, looking out into the horizon of nothing. 

“How long are you going to stay?” Fletcher asks.  He doesn’t need to clarify what he means, and he doesn’t look at Andrew when he says it. He says it casual, as if he is asking his favorite song and not something that could change how things go from there, and the interrogative hangs in the air, bendy and ending with a solid finish. Waiting for a response.

 _How long_ indeed.  It’s not something Andrew has thought about, not really — there have been moments where he’s said to himself, “I could leave,” but deep down he knows that’s impossible.  He couldn’t leave Fletcher before — Andrew once had a chance to delete Fletcher from his life forever but he walked back out onto that stage, returning to Fletcher and gifting him the best solo he’s ever heard — so he can’t leave him now, no way. For a while, Andrew thought, _worried,_ that Fletcher would make the choice for him and abandon him on some anonymous highway or a greasy diner or dead in the woods, but he hasn’t, and Andrew gets the sense that he can’t leave, either.  They are strung together by a misfortunate conglomeration of jazz and murder and an insane impulse that keeps them in tandem.  They’re an unstoppable force and an immovable object, and they swap roles interchangeably, ceaselessly trying to adapt to the push-pull that they embody.

There was never the question of when it would end — they both know that the only way it can conclude is at a full stop. 

“Indefinitely,” Andrew says, and he feels shameless as he leans on the rail next to Fletcher, their elbows brushing against each other.  “You can’t get rid of me.” 

It’s the answer that Andrew wants to say, and he thinks it’s the one that Fletcher wants to hear but can’t admit. Andrew is about to say something else, say why he can’t leave, but Fletcher turns to him and it’s like he looks right through him, cold and calculating and ineffable.

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Fletcher says.  It’s not dishonest, but it isn’t honest, either.

Andrew adds himself up in Fletcher’s eyes.  Start with one failure. Add relentless talent and an opportunity. Minus an opportunity. Add two hands ready to bleed. Add a forty-year age gap. Take away his dignity, but add back a bursting bundle of pride.  Subtract his former life, because he doesn’t have claim to that anymore. But add one very big sum of him being his _one_ that he’s spent his life trying to construct, a Pygmalion.  All together, this is what Fletcher sees, and Andrew hopes that it is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the museums mentioned are actual places!
> 
> Also, the bit about Fletcher seeing Charlie Parker is from the script. Even though there's kind of a time discrepancy — Parker died in 1955, which would be the same year Fletcher would be born (if going off the age of the actor). But whatever! Fanfic world makes things work out! Plus Chazelle did write it. So.


	11. enjoy the silence.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their journey takes them east.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title: ["Enjoy the Silence"](http://youtu.be/w5Mv3WS3D-o) by Depeche Mode.

A momentum propels them forward, and it’s more of the same: open roads, vinyl restaurant booths, cheap hotels, the execution of those unlucky enough to be on their radar.  Their big paper map is worn and separating at the crease and there’s a tiny rip somewhere east of the Midwest.  Andrew opens it and lays it between them on the seat, and it’s heavy with black ink, a dense array of marks labeling their work and connecting together like constellations.

“Where to?” Fletcher asks, and Andrew points to an empty place on the map, and later he makes a mark, completing a new constellation.

Another thing that repeats: they fight.  They fight a lot. One of them throws something across the room and the other one ducks, and the object misses completely and breaks against the wall.  Andrew yells that he hates Fletcher, hates him more than anything, and Andrew tries to punch him in the face because Fletcher doesn’t care at all and that’s not fair. Fletcher tells him to leave, and says that he made a mistake and should have left Andrew behind.  Andrew says that he maybe he _will_ leave, and Fletcher says that he’s glad because he’s grown bored of him, and then he smiles a papercut-sharp smile because he’s that much of an asshole.

But neither ever leaves, and words are meaningless and forgettable, so they forget what was said because it doesn’t matter.  They don’t forgive because there’s nothing _to_ forgive, and a good brawl usually precedes a superb fuck, so it's worth it.

Sometimes they pick fights on purpose, just because.  And so it goes. 

Fletcher doesn’t let Andrew fuck him often, but intermittently Fletcher will allow it, and Andrew never lets that opportunity go.  Andrew still doesn’t totally understand it, why Fletcher willfully permits it. He’d like to think it’s trust, but really it’s probably a sick mix of deriving enjoyment from screwing with his mind and another chance to debase him — to make Andrew think he has the upper hand, but then remind him he could never truly have control over him.

Like now — Andrew kneels behind Fletcher on the bed and plunges into him with jerky motions and lets out a strangled exhale that causes Fletcher to say, “Retain some goddamn composure,” then grunts and adds, “you’re the worst faggot ever.  I can’t even feel your dick.” 

As a retort, Andrew angles his hips and roughly thrusts into him, and there’s a half-suppressed moan that Fletcher severs with an insult. 

It’s a moment before Andrew pulls from Fletcher, and the noise Fletcher makes on the absence of him in him is _great_ , there’s no faking that. Andrew takes a deep breath and braces a hand against the small of Fletcher’s back, then sinks into him once more, all the way, slow and even.  He leans forward and puts his head between Fletcher’s shoulder blades and pants against the damp skin there, and he takes his time to learn him from the inside out, figuring out what moves make him rock back onto him and how to obtain those almost-repressed groans, what makes him, him. 

Much of him remains a mystery, and Andrew supposes that it’s probably better that way. To know him too absolute would conclude the reason to indulge himself with him.  Regardless, he still remembers the way Fletcher bites down on Andrew’s name and spasms against him when he comes.  He remembers the way that Fletcher shoves him onto the bed and assaults his neck with kisses that have too much teeth and touches him with purpose to get him hard again, but then draws back and teases him until Andrew promises he’ll kill him, and as Andrew lists all the ways he can do it, Fletcher lets him come. 

“What are we?” Andrew asks, after they’ve showered and changed the sheets, and it’s a few hours before dawn.

Beside him, Fletcher stares up at the ceiling.  “There’s a lot of ways to answer that,” he says, and after a moment he lists possibilities, “Once musicians, men — although that’s debatable for you —, murderers. Take your pick.”

“Cooper called us _partners,_ ” Andrew says, and Fletcher recoils beside him, which Andrew understands because the word tastes sour in his mouth.  “But I know that’s wrong.  Perhaps we can be called partners in crime, though.”

“I’m going to call you _dead_ if you don’t stop,” Fletcher says, as threateningly as he can while tired. 

Andrew feels his ribs expand as he breathes in deep, his lungs pressing against his steadily beating heart.

“I’m already dead,” Andrew says, and he closes his eyes and slows his breathing, because maybe if tries really hard, he can will himself to die. 

“Is that what you think?” 

Andrew never answers. He pretends to be asleep.

 

•••

 

Mount St. Helens is another one of those things that will forever be more interesting than Andrew. And rightfully so, Andrew thinks, as he looks at the volcano from the observation deck.  He’s captivated at the fact that something so serene can turn destructive and volatile at any moment.  It reminds him of his own life.

Fifty-seven people were killed during the volcano’s most violent outburst, burned to a crisp by lava. The funny thing is that together with Fletcher, Andrew is more deadly.  Their body count is up to sixty-two, and every time they get complete a kill it’s reinforcement to continue.  If they weren’t supposed to do it, they would have been stopped by now. It destiny, or a great deal of luck. Either way, Andrew takes it as indication that they should be doing it.

It gets him thinking about it, and when he points out a lonely young guy to Fletcher, they add one more, making it sixty-three.

Take _that,_ volcano.

They leave the guy strung up in a tree and set up for exsanguination, with his major arteries cut so all his blood can drain onto the ground.

It shouldn’t turn Andrew on, but it does.  It leads to him shoving Fletcher against a tree and dropping to his knees, and he quickly unfastens Fletcher’s pants just enough so he can pull out his cock, which to Andrew’s delight is already at half-mast. _Good_ , Andrew thinks, _it's sexy to him too_.  

Andrew unceremoniously takes him in his mouth and works with a clear objective, licking and sucking until he feels Fletcher harden to fullness in his mouth.  Then he really gives it his all, taking him deep until his nose brushes against wiry hair. 

Fletcher runs a hand through Andrew’s hair, and rests his hand against the back of Andrew’s neck. “You’re a sick fuck,” he mutters, looking down at Andrew with heavy eyes. 

Andrew pulls off, and a string of spit and pre-come trails from Fletcher to Andrew’s lips. “And?” 

There is no _and,_ Fletcher guides him back to his cock and Andrew complies, lips stretching over the tip and sucking him thoroughly. Andrew wants this, he’s gagging for it, to have his mouth stretched and full of cock, he loves the feeling of Fletcher hot and wet and twitching against his tongue.

He puts his hands around Fletcher’s thighs and pulls him closer.

“You’re such a good cocksucker,” Fletcher mumbles as he cards through his hair.  “ _My_ cocksucker.”

Andrew looks up at Fletcher and flutters his eyelashes in fake seduction, and that’s when Fletcher comes, spilling down his throat.

Afterward, Fletcher rewards Andrew with his orgasm.  He brings him off with a few tugs, and he whispers cruel, wonderful things in his ear the entire time.

 

•••

 

They head eastbound because there isn’t any other choice — the ocean is on their left, they can’t get into Canada without proper documentation, and they refuse to go back the way they came. 

At mid-October the temperature is cool, which would be nice because they’ve spent months sweating their asses off, but their thin sweaters aren’t cutting it and to top it off, the heat doesn’t work in their shitty car.  Somewhere before they leave Washington they get tired of pretending they aren’t shivering so they buy cheap coats and they pluck scarves from victims sixty-four and sixty-five in Idaho.

They are masters at adapting.  Generalizing their behavior from one condition to the next.  Fletcher always said that Andrew’s improvisation isn’t any good, but he’s perfected his skills and he thinks that he can fight his way out of any situation whether it’s an unknown song or a dark alley or an argument.

Whatever the circumstances are, it’s nice to be making progress (towards what, who knows, but they both recognize that there is something they’re aiming for). They themselves don’t change, or at least not enough to notice, or maybe they just don’t pay attention because it doesn’t matter.  What matters is that they are Andrew and Fletcher, and that’s all.

Andrew is whimsy and Fletcher is logic.  Fletcher is water and Andrew is the shore — Fletcher keeps crashing into him and washing bits of him away. But Andrew doesn’t care as long as he can follow Fletcher.

 

•••

 

Fletcher stops talking not long after the Montana state line.

It’s weird because conversations have become easier. Andrew doesn’t feel like he’s talking into a void, and Fletcher complains less (but doesn’t completely cease, but Andrew wouldn’t expect anything less).  Fletcher is prone to bouts of silence for miles and miles, but for the most part he is always inclined to respond to Andrew, and he can never not give his opinion.

But right now he’s quiet, uncharacteristically so — there’s a tense muteness that will not settle, and it’s obvious that something is bothering him.  Andrew doesn’t know what spurred it, but he knows better than to ask.  Fletcher shares only what he wants.  So Andrew leaves Fletcher alone with his misery. 

He’s almost convinced himself that he’s the reason for Fletcher’s distress when Fletcher clears his throat as they drive through Billings on I-90.

“My daughter lives here,” Fletcher says.  In his peripheral vision, Andrew sees that Fletcher glances at him before looking back at the road.

“Oh.” Andrew knows about Fletcher’s daughter, Fletcher told him about her during their stay in California. Andrew doesn’t know much about her other than the fact that she’s older than himself (which is bizarre to think about) and Fletcher hasn’t seen her for a very long time.

“Do you want to see her?” It’s a stupid question, but he asks it anyway.

Fletcher scoffs. “I’m supposed to be dead, remember?” He drums his fingers against the steering wheel.  “She's probably glad I was murdered.”

Andrew wants to say something helpful because Fletcher is confiding in him and he wants for him to feel comfortable to do that.  He thinks of his own parent who he doesn’t know and if he would be upset if she were dead, but it’s hard to care about someone you don’t know.

Andrew settles with saying, “I’m sure she doesn’t hate you that much.”

“Holy shit, you are a wordsmith! You should start writing greeting cards!" 

“I was just trying to help.”

“I didn’t ask for your help, you faggot-faced retard!”

“Okay,” Andrew says, wrapping his coat tighter around himself and looking out the window. Sometimes it’s easier to yield — when he doesn’t give Fletcher attention, he deescalates a lot quicker. 

Sure enough, about thirty minutes later Fletcher recovers and rounds on Andrew.

“What is _Point Break_ about, anyway?” Fletcher asks, and Andrew laughs at the randomness of it, and Fletcher says, “no, really, tell me.”

Andrew knows it’s a distraction, so he drags out the plot of the movie for as long as possible as they travel straight through Montana.  They’re in Wyoming by the time he finishes, saying— 

“…so Johnny Utah uncuffs him and he goes out into to ocean to surf the wave that only comes every fifty years, and Utah throws his badge in the water.  The end.”

“That,” Fletcher says after Andrew concludes, “is the dumbest movie I’ve ever heard of. And I still don’t get why you called Connolly ‘Johnny Utah.’  He’s nowhere as capable as you describe the character.” 

“I don’t know, you just have to see it,” Andrew says.

The fine balance between them is readjusted.

 

•••

 

The search for Andrew Neiman and Terence Fletcher ends on October twenty-ninth. 

It’s been over six months since they’ve been missing, and it’s almost certain that they are victims of the Dyad Killer.

Prognosis: presumed dead.

Andrew gets to die before he’s thirty-four, after all.

He and Fletcher sit next to each other on a bed in South Dakota watching the coverage about the Dyad on CNN. When it repeats for the third time, Fletcher says, “Fuck it,” and goes into the bathroom.

Sometime later (Andrew loses track of the time — he flipped to a _Friends_ marathon), Fletcher comes out and Andrew gapes at him.

“You shaved!” Andrew says. He’s grown used to seeing Fletcher day in and day out a particular way, and the sudden change in his appearance is shocking.   It’s a call back to _before_ , like a song he hasn’t heard in a long time but could never forget the lyrics to.

Fletcher rubs his chin, now devoid of scruff.  “It wasn’t for me.”

Andrew is glad that he at least did not touch the hair that circles his skull.  That would’ve been too much. 

“I thought we had to conceal ourselves,” Andrew says.

“Yes,” Fletcher says, smiling and sitting next to him.  “We did.”

Andrew goes to move over to give Fletcher space, but Fletcher wraps his arm around Andrew’s middle and hauls him towards him, pulling him into his lap.  Andrew lets out a surprised yelp as he settles between Fletcher’s thighs, but he soon relaxes, his back against Fletcher’s front. Fletcher touches him, first a light squeeze at his shoulders, then snakes a hand up his shirt to skim against his stomach, and higher still to rub his thumb over his nipple. It’s all very sensual, slow and calculated, and Andrew’s breathing aligns with Fletcher’s. 

Andrew fidgets, scooting down to cradle his head on Fletcher’s shoulder.  “And now we don’t have to hide?”

He feels Fletcher’s exhale against his ear, and against his neck he feels how Fletcher’s skin is still cool from a fresh shave.  “Not as much,” Fletcher says, and his hand dips below and palms against Andrew’s burgeoning erection. “We are free.”

When Fletcher kisses Andrew, Andrew doesn’t feel free.  There’s a measure of compulsion with it.

 

•••

 

The next morning, Andrew dyes his hair back to its original color.  Fletcher spends twelve minutes in the drugstore mulling over the selection to find the exact shade, and back at the motel he even helps Andrew with the transformation of his hair.

“Yes,” Fletcher says, taking a dark, unruly curl on Andrew’s forehead between his fingers, harvesting and inspecting it.  “This is better.”

Andrew stares at himself in the mirror.  His hair is its natural so-dark-it’s-almost-black, and there’s a recollection of him with dark waves framing his face.  It’s another progression of them taking steps to get back to who they were. _Are._ Were? 

There’s a problem though — Andrew is dead, so there’s nothing to return to.  He’s had to pretend for so long to _not_ be him, and after all that time he thinks that he possibly likes it better.  It was uncomplicated to not be him. 

Looking in the mirror, he doesn’t recognize the person he sees at all.

(It’s a good thing Fletcher is there to tell him who he is.)

 

•••

 

Who Andrew is: it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the blood on his hands, rhythms pounding in his ears like a metronome, the way Fletcher conducts him. There’s an uncanny familiarity. 

Some things are meant to be, the universe forcing them into existence.  So there’s no sense to fight it.

They are who they are to each other, and anybody else knowing feels like an intrusion.

“This is me,” Andrew says, and Fletcher matches him, wolf’s grin for wolf’s grin, and reaches forward to claim him, saying, “That’s my boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I like top!Andrew /no shame


	12. deadlines and commitments.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November; vegan cupcakes; reciprocity; a payphone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being patient for updates!
> 
> ["Deadline and Commitments"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bFoo3NGy0Dg) by The Killers.
> 
> Extra content warnings: stuff with guns, kinky things? I don't know how to tag this stuff anymore. If you've made it this far you're alright.

November brings a bitter chill, among other things.

Andrew wakes up in the car one morning (pressed up against Fletcher, it’s too cold otherwise), and realizes that it’s Fletcher’s birthday.  He’s sure that Fletcher thinks that he doesn’t remember, but he does — last year they were at some Manhattan jazz club and a saxophonist acquaintance of Fletcher’s came to their table and slapped Fletcher on the back wishing him _happy birthday, you old miserable man_ , and since then the date has been seared into Andrew’s mind.

Andrew doesn’t say anything about it, not right away.  He waits for the opportune moment, because it’s too precious of a commodity to waste.

His patience pays off when they’re at a hipster restaurant and he sees how Fletcher’s cool exterior crumbles when the entire staff starts to sing happy birthday to him, surrounding their table in a jovial song and placing a vegan cupcake in front of him.

“Make a wish,” Andrew says, gesturing to the cupcake with a singular candle stuck in the icing. 

“You will pay for this,” Fletcher snarls, but he blows out the candle anyway.  Andrew almost asks what he wished for, but then again, he doesn’t really want to know. 

Later, after they’ve checked into what’s probably the most squalid hotel in all of Iowa (which Andrew had wanted to avoid but it’s too damn cold to keep driving to find another place to stay), they share a bottle of cheap scotch — drank neat, because the ice from the machine smells funny.

Two and a half small plastic cups in, Fletcher says, “To be honest, I had forgot.  That it was today.”

Andrew laughs, and the warmth of it mixes with the flush from the alcohol.  “How could you forget your birthday?” he asks, and then adds, “you aren’t senile yet.” 

“Are you implying that I’m old?” 

“Well,” Andrew says.

Fletcher downs the rest of the contents of his cup and shrugs.  “Celebrating the fact you’ve survived another awful year gets boring somewhere around forty-one.” 

Andrew wonders if Fletcher believes that because there had been nobody around to care.

“Are you bored now?” Andrew asks, and he can’t help the desperation that strains in his voice.

“What if I said yes?” Fletcher says, and for a moment Andrew is convinced, and he starts constructing ways to persuade Fletcher otherwise.  But then Fletcher’s face cracks into a smile, and Andrew realizes he’s kidding, or he wants Andrew to believe he’s kidding. 

“No, you needy, self-conscious shit stack,” Fletcher says.  “I am thoroughly…entertained.”

“Good,” Andrew says against his lips, and then bites until he tastes blood.

 

•••

 

Fletcher is interesting, and Andrew is obsessive.

Andrew knows _exactly_ how far to push Fletcher to get the reactions he’s angling for.  Like when:

They’re at a bar and Andrew calls Fletcher _Terry_ as he slides in next to him in the booth, nuzzling into his shoulder and putting his arms around him.  Fletcher attempts to untangle himself from Andrew’s hold, saying, “Get the fuck off of me! You’re like a gay octopus,” but Andrew just clings to him tighter and says overdramatic declarations of affection loud enough to skeeve out the people around them. 

There’s a little of that, and Andrew whispers in Fletcher’s ear, “I think you need to teach me a lesson,” and he backs away to see that gleam in Fletcher’s windex-colored eyes. It’s not quite at the breaking point yet, so he leans in to kiss his nose and says, “Do you think you’re up to the challenge, old man?” 

Fletcher all but drags Andrew out of the bar and across the street back to their motel, berating Andrew the entire time — “You’ve got such a sassy mouth!  Didn’t anybody ever teach you any manners?”

“No,” Andrew says while he waits for Fletcher to unlock the door.  He forces himself not to smile — it makes it better.

When Fletcher finally gets the door open — he’s fumbling a bit, Andrew observes with delight — he holds it ajar with his foot, and then slaps Andrew in the face. It sends Andrew reeling, gasping and closing his eyes, and he fees the beginnings of heat pooling in his stomach.

“No _what_?” Fletcher asks.

“No, _sir,_ ” Andrew amends.

Fletcher smiles. “Maybe you _can_ be taught,” he says, and pushes Andrew inside the room.

It’s so easy to wind Fletcher up. Fletcher thinks that it’s all his doing and would never admit to Andrew’s part in it, but that’s okay to Andrew because he benefits from it.  He likes being dominated, and there’s something oddly satisfying in debasing himself for him.

“Put your hands on the wall,” Fletcher says, and Andrew obliges, turning towards the wall and placing his palms shoulder width apart on the wall to brace himself. Fletcher reaches around and undoes Andrew’s pants — a little clumsily, they’re both a little drunk — and yanks them and his underwear down around his thighs. 

“Well?” Andrew says.

Behind him, he can hear Fletcher’s smirk.  “Have patience,” Fletcher says, stroking Andrew’s ass and giving it a light pat. “You’re rather eager for me to discipline you.”

“Yes—yes sir, please—”

Fletcher brings his hand down hard on Andrew’s bare ass, and Andrew hisses at the sting. Fletcher says something, Andrew doesn’t know what, but Fletcher spanks him again, following it with a kiss at the back of his neck.  Andrew begs for more.  It continues until Andrew’s sobbing out and his ass is sore, and it only takes a few strokes from Fletcher until he comes in Fletcher’s hand, some of his release spurting on the wall.

He lives for Fletcher’s praises, and when Fletcher murmurs, “Good boy,” and presses against him, it feels all right.

 

•••

 

Anymore, sex isn’t as hate-driven, it’s more of a familiar act (they still have so much hate for one another, but it’s exhausting to be so angry all the time, and it’s nice sometimes to just _be_ ), but it’s still as heated.  Andrew likes it best when he’s on his back, splayed out while Fletcher leans over him and pushes in, angling so that it encourages to Andrew spread his thighs and fully enjoy getting utterly fucked.

Andrew hooks his left leg around Fletcher’s thigh, and pulls him in harder with every thrust. “More,” Andrew breathes, and he snaps his hips to show his impatience, his eagerness.

When Fletcher puts his hand around Andrew throat, Andrew has to ask for it, grabbing Fletcher's hand and placing it there.  Fletcher seems surprised at first, but he isn’t for long.  His hand fits there perfectly, like it’s made for it (this they’re both aware of), and he presses hard, choking Andrew, stealing his breath, and Andrew comes quick when he’s gasping on the remnants of his last breath, spilling slick between their stomachs.

Fletcher loosens his grip as Andrew jerks through his orgasm and takes in greedy gulps of air, and his hands go to Andrew’s hips and continues to fuck into him. Completely spent, Andrew lies listless as his body jostles against Fletcher’s, and it kind of starts to hurt but it’s also satisfying to be overtaken and used by him. 

He knows when Fletcher is about to come — he knows it by the flush in his face that’s different than how he flushes when he’s angry, how he hunches up his shoulders and dips his head down to look away. 

He can’t hide his face, not after all this — so Andrew reaches up and holds his face between his hands and forces Fletcher to look at him.  “That’s better,” Andrew says, slipping his thumb between Fletcher parted lips. Fletcher bites his thumb and there’s another thrust and Andrew feels him come inside him, and he groans around Andrew's thumb as he looks at Andrew the entire time he shudders his orgasm out. 

Afterward, neither speaks of how it felt — to be asphyxiated or to be the one stifling another’s breath. It hasn’t been done like that since the time Fletcher did it with other intentions; to Andrew, it seems like Fletcher is hoping Andrew will leave it be, but for that reason, he cannot.

Andrew waits until later when they’re settled, and Fletcher is tracing the scars on Andrew’s chin. Andrew has his attention and then some, so he uses the opportunity to tell him, “I won’t ever forgive you for when you tried to strangle me to death.  That one time.” He feels like he should elaborate, tell him other things he won’t forgive him for — but when he goes to name them, he second-guesses himself.  He can’t decide if he’s resentful, or thankful.

Fletcher’s touch falls from him. “I wasn’t going to kill you,” he says. Almost offended. 

“I know you weren't,” Andrew says, hopes.  “But still.”

Fletcher shrugs. “My intention was to give you a lesson. I had to make sure you wouldn’t do anything foolish like that again.”  When Andrew starts to speak, Fletcher continues, “I never know what you’ll do when I’m not around!  You need constant supervision.  If I weren’t here you’d be in jail for murder, or would have starved a long time ago. Or like when you went out on your own once and you got molested—”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”  Andrew turns away from him and faces the wall.

There’s a moment and he thinks that the matter has dropped, but Fletcher lines up to his back and throws his arm around his middle.  Andrew tries to resist, but Fletcher holds him still, and eventually, Andrew eases into him.

He must be a glutton for punishment.  Or maybe what normal people perceive as punishment he takes as reinforcement. He had abused his body with physical output and drugs — but he’s replaced those habits with something worse. _Masochist,_ Fletcher has called him in their intimate moments. He isn’t wrong.

“I’m—,” Fletcher says, and Andrew almost laughs, because Fletcher can’t genuinely say sorry, they both know that, so why even try.

(Andrew wonders what made him that way.)

Instead, Fletcher asks, “Would you have this any other way?” and Andrew feels his question against the back of his neck when he speaks.

“No.”

 

•••

 

Of all the kills they’ve made, it never felt like they were in any real danger.  It’s as though they’ve started to believe with absolute conviction they couldn’t be harmed, because they were already dead to everybody else.

But they are not invulnerable, and can bleed. 

Fletcher is hurt. Victim number seventy-three goes down fighting, landing a strong right hook that sends Fletcher spiraling to the ground. Andrew pales only for a moment, but then leaps on the man and snaps his neck.  It feels like revenge.

Thankfully, Fletcher isn’t injured too badly, but blood pouring out of his nose is enough to alarm Andrew. Andrew had thought that Fletcher would shake away his nagging touch when he kneels by his side, but Fletcher doesn’t. He lets Andrew help him up from the ground and put him in the passenger seat, and he stays silent on the whole ride back except for softly saying, “Calm down, Andrew,” every so often. 

Fletcher should be mean to him, he should be spitting mad and cursing at Andrew, taking out his pain and anger on him.  Andrew preps for it, knowing it’s how Fletcher expresses himself but...it doesn’t happen. Fletcher lets Andrew worry over him, and tips his head back when Andrew inspects his nose.

Somehow, Fletcher’s even-tempered reaction is more troubling to Andrew.

“Shit,” Andrew says, the image of Fletcher lying dazed in the snow with a face full of blood still strong in his mind.  He gently touches the bridge of Fletcher’s nose, and tears prick at the corners of his eyes when Fletcher flinches.

“I’m fine,” Fletcher says, the response muffled against Andrew’s hand.  There’s dried blood under his nose, and on his chin.  “Just a little sore.”

Andrew _humphs_ and wipes Fletcher’s face with a damp washcloth. Fletcher may be right — he’s stopped bleeding and his nose doesn’t appear to be broken — but still, Andrew thinks that Fletcher should care more.  He could have died, but for real.  What if—

“Hey, Andrew, I’m okay,” Fletcher says, and he wraps his hand around Andrew’s wrist. “We’re okay.” 

Only then does Andrew realize he had been trembling.

He knows that should be comforted, but instead he feels unsettled.  Fletcher being contrary is baffling.  A part of Andrew thinks that Fletcher does it on purpose, but it doesn’t have the same essence of Fletcher’s premeditated acts. He just seems weary, like he’s too tired to act.

Fletcher’s blasé behavior disturbs Andrew, and it isn’t the first time. Fletcher has developed a conflicting persona.  Fletcher-that-was is pure nightmare fuel, takes but never gives, and will do anything to make Andrew break.  Fletcher-that-is has the same qualities but are lessened and offset by others, such as having amiable discourse, throwing a half-grin his way when he says something witty, or planting a kiss on his shoulder in the morning before he’s fully woken up.  Once in a while the two versions mix together (the Fletcher-that-was is always the one who appears in Andrew’s dreams), and it’s unfair — Andrew can never get a full grasp on Fletcher and what he means to him. It makes Andrew wonder if it’s all just another way to fuck with him.  That’s something that Fletcher-that-was would do — make Andrew completely attached so that when Fletcher does leave, it will completely shatter Andrew. 

Or maybe Fletcher was never who he thought he was at all.  And if Fletcher isn’t Fletcher, then Andrew isn’t really sure about himself.

For the first time in months, Andrew wishes he had some pills.  He feels like a relapse is in order.  Uppers, downers, he doesn’t care — just something so he doesn’t have to think, doesn’t have the clutter in his brain (Fletcher, jazz, blood, regret).  But he can’t clear it, and just wants to scream, claw his skin off and flay away his aching muscles and detach all his bones and arrange them in neat piles because then maybe he would be able to calm down and focus on something.

Andrew waits until he hears Fletcher’s hushed sleeping sounds to crawl out of bed, carefully so that he doesn’t wake him.  He rummages through Fletcher’s bag and finds what he’s looking for.

The gun is cool and heavy in his hands, inviting.  It would only take one pull of the trigger to silence his troubles.  Easy.

But it is more difficult than murder.

So instead, he straddles Fletcher and presses the gun to his temple. 

Andrew wishes he had turned on the light so he could better see how Fletcher’s face looks when he realizes what’s happening, but the transformation of half-asleep mutterings to the scathing “What the _fuck,_ Andrew?” is delicious enough.

Andrew twists his hand, forcing the cold metal harder into Fletcher’s head, and he feels Fletcher tense up underneath him.  “I’ll do it,” Andrew says, barely above a whisper.  He had wanted to kill him another time, when he slammed him into the wood floor of a stage after he told him it was over.  If he blew off the bastard’s head now, it would be a long time coming. He’s almost giddy thinking about the wonderful red spray it would make on the headboard. 

He waits for Fletcher to speak because it’s _his_ turn now, and when Fletcher says, “Then go ahead,” it sounds like he is at best, indifferent.

Andrew _growls_ , and shoves the hand that isn’t holding the gun in Fletcher’s face, pressing the heel of his palm into his injured nose. When Fletcher gasps in pain, Andrew presses harder. 

“I hate you,” Andrew says, almost sobbing, and Fletcher promises, “I hate you, too.”

It's wonderful to hear the reciprocity.

Later, when the gun is on the bedside table and Andrew is flipped on his back and Fletcher is fucking him, Andrew says, “You’re going to be the death of me.” 

The possible truth of it makes both of them laugh, and Fletcher dips his head down to take Andrew’s bottom lip between his, tasting him like a fine dish.

 

•••

 

Sometimes, Andrew thinks about before.  He can’t say that those times were better times, because he had it shitty back then too. Worse, possibly. But he does have some nostalgia for when he didn’t hop state to state and his drum set wasn’t absent from his life and didn’t continually worry about _what if_ the FBI does track him down.

But really, nostalgia is just the feeling of wanting something you can’t return to. 

He wonders what he would be doing now if his life didn’t go in this direction.  Before, his life was very predicable: drum, and that’s it. Now it is: who knows.

“Oh my dear God,” Fletcher groans, “stop.  People are staring at you weep like a little girl.”

Andrew wipes his eyes. Why would he have thought that telling Fletcher any of this would’ve made it better?

“Fuck you,” Andrew spits, and kicks back the chair and stomps away, not caring that the people in the bar and grill of podunk town, Vermont, population five-hundred and thirty, are in fact looking at him. 

He’s glad when Fletcher doesn’t follow him to the back of the restaurant.  It gives him a moment to calm down.  He punches a wall and takes a few deep breaths, reining in the hammering flip-flop of his heart in his chest and muting the buzz in his ears that roars things he doesn’t want to hear.

It probably could go on for a few more minutes but he gets distracted — there’s a payphone, mounted on the wall next to the restrooms.  It makes Andrew sad to see something forgotten and useless.

Breathing hard, he grabs change out of his pocket that’s to be used for interstate tollbooths and slots enough into the payphone until the dial tone clicks on. There are only two people who he has regularly talked to on the phone in the past couple years and one of them is across the room, so he calls the other.

Andrew doesn’t know much about his dad anymore — his dad stopped posting continual updates on the Find Andrew Neiman Facebook page weeks ago, because there is nobody to be found. He supposes that his dad gave up on him too, like he gives up on everything.  Andrew wants to ask him about that, along with a lot of other things, such as: have you missed me?  aren’t I clever? have you ever seen someone die? what should I do next? what the fuck is wrong with me? did you know I was this way? am I a bad person? do you still love me? 

He hates it, but misses his dad’s _perspective_ on things. Sometimes.  His dad told him once that Fletcher would ruin him if he weren’t careful.  At the time, Andrew had blew him off, because his dad didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, that even if parts of him were ruined, it would be worth it.  Andrew remembers when his dad said it, and it was sad and wavering, like he wanted to believe that Andrew wasn’t messed up too, like he wanted to ignore that it was Andrew’s destiny.

Andrew dials the first four digits of his dad’s number before he slams the phone on the receiver. Andrew doesn’t need to be told something he already knows.  He knows his place. 

He takes the returned change from the payphone, and turns around, his eyes lighting up when he sees another distraction.

“You’re done with your hissy fit?” Fletcher asks when Andrew sits down across from him.

“Yeah,” Andrew says, grinning behind his cherry coke.

Fletcher sighs because he’s well acquainted with Andrew’s devious grin, and asks, “ _What?_ ”

“There’s a jukebox,” Andrew says, and he’s _so_ glad when the micro-expression of remembrance flashes across Fletcher’s face. An inside joke of theirs.

“I swear to fucking god—”

“Don’t worry, ‘Folsom Prison Blues’ wasn’t an option.”

Fletcher breathes out a visible sigh of relief.

“…instead I picked ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’,” Andrew says.  “Six times.”

If they weren’t in public, Andrew is sure Fletcher would leap across the table to smack him.

The first time the song plays, everyone in the establishment sings along enthusiastically — it’s one of those songs that people shout _this is my favorite song!_ when it comes on the radio.  When it repeats, everyone looks to each other and laughs, and but most sing again, a few giving up around the _Scaramouche_ verse.  Only the really drunk people sing along the third time the song kicks in over the speakers.

They don’t know what happens on plays four through six because they leave while Freddie Mercury sings about killing a man, and they walk side by side to their rusty old car.

Andrew half-sings, “ _spare him his life from this monstrosity_.” Fletcher glares at him.

“I’ve had it with your insolence,” Fletcher says, but it really doesn’t sound like he means it at all.

Andrew flops into the passenger seat.  “But it’s why you like me, right?” he says, keening.  “If I didn’t fight back, you wouldn’t have anything left to teach me.”

“I guess,” Fletcher says, admitting, “you have a point.”

 

•••

 

Andrew knows the smell of blood, and it’s heavy in the air, so thick he can almost taste it. It follows them wherever they go. It feels like an ending, a death oncoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and yes, I made it so Fletcher is a Scorpio. My biggest headcanon is Andrew is a Leo and Fletcher is a Scorpio.


	13. you've got time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fletcher is the one who has to say it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the penultimate installment! Thank you all for continuing to read and support this!
> 
> Chapter title reference: ["You've Got Time"](http://youtu.be/w9_isl1jjHc) by Regina Spektor (I really do suggest listening to it or reading the lyrics!)

Under Fletcher’s supervision, Andrew is allowed to play the drums.

They find a small music shop in Ohio, and even though they don’t show any interest in buying anything, the storeowner lets them fiddle with the instruments.  After getting reaccustomed to the drums — Andrew is reluctant at first to play, thinking that maybe it’s a test of faith from Fletcher, but he encourages him to immerse himself with them — Andrew plays what comes to mind naturally. It’s nice, and it’s even better when he looks up and Fletcher is nodding at him.  A few minutes into that, Fletcher takes a seat at the grand piano on display and plays along.

“That was fantastic,” the storeowner says when they go to leave.  “You two should have an act.”

Andrew and Fletcher share a glance.

Should’ve, would’ve, could’ve.

 

•••

 

Fletcher is the one who has to say it.  Andrew never would — he never knows when to quit, always overindulgences, and has a hard time letting go. It’s always been a problem for him; drums until he bleeds, dopes up until he passes out, goes until he’s gone. That’s why he relinquished his authority to Fletcher — it’s easier for someone to make the tough decisions for him, and he relies on Fletcher to direct him.

So, on one frigid December afternoon while locked away in a motel, Fletcher says, “We can stop.”

Andrew doesn’t need clarification as to what Fletcher means, but he can’t quite tell if Fletcher is commanding it, or merely suggesting.

Suddenly, the small anonymous room feels more like a cage, and colder than the chill outside. Fletcher, sitting on the threadbare sofa in the room, and Andrew, halfway between him and the door — it makes Andrew unsure what to do.

“We can stop,” Fletcher repeats, “while we’re ahead.”

Are they ahead? For a while it felt like they were, but now Andrew isn’t so sure.  He wants to know what is included in the package of _stopping_ — is it only the murdering, or the entire thing that they’ve made for themselves?

Andrew bites his lip. “And then what?” he asks, because everything has been a series of events, one tumbling after another. Cause and effect, a reaction sparking a reaction that induces another reaction and on and on and—

“Develop better identities. Get jobs.  Go somewhere, and stay.”  Fletcher pauses, contemplative, as though he has to dare himself to say the next thing.  “We could go anywhere. To New Orleans,” he says, and Andrew cringes.

It sounds nice. It sounds like a trap. 

“Together?” Andrew asks, easing onto the sofa, next to Fletcher.  Their knees touch.

“Duh, nitwit,” Fletcher says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.  Andrew has a hard time believing it — it’s not like Fletcher to casually give way to commitment like that.  With him, the personal is usually concealed by omission rather than displayed in outright commission.

“…Unless you don’t want to be,” Fletcher slowly says, furrowing his brows and studying the frown on Andrew’s face. “You look confused?”

“I am,” Andrew says, turning to face him.  “You say that, but like, why me?  Why are you still here?”

Immediately, Fletcher throws the same question back to him, “Why are _you_ still here?”

Andrew scoffs. “You made me stay, because we’re murderers!” he yells, because that’s how it happened, he remembers it, Fletcher made him stay, and conditioned him to never escape.  “I _can’t_ stop killing.”

Fletcher slaps him in the face, not too hard, but hard enough for the purpose of punishment. “Why don’t you shout it louder so everyone in the motel can hear you?” Fletcher hisses.

“But no, really, I can’t stop,” Andrew says, and it’s the truth.  He needs it, it drives him, it quiets that bloodlust fixation that burns in his veins from the inside out.  He cannot stop because if he did, then what would they do? How would be appease it?

“If I stopped, then—,” Andrew begins, but he chokes, and fuck his single tear.

Fletcher leans forward, saying, “Well?  Come on, master of suspense.”

Andrew wipes his cheek, takes in a deep breath, here goes nothing—

“I thought you’d leave me,” and damn, it sounds so pathetic when he says it, and Andrew immediately wishes he could take it back.

But it’s out in the open, and Fletcher seizes the confession and bleeds it dry. “Oh, Andrew, you’re so stupid,” Fletcher says, his eyes an icy dark stare, and he cards through Andrew’s hair and caresses his face, and tells Andrew what he already knows and has feared. “I could’ve got rid of you long ago.”

“And you still can,” Andrew insists, jerking away from Fletcher’s intrusive touch, and ignoring the lingering question of _how_ Fletcher would have divested himself of him.  “You only care about me when I’m serving some purpose to you, I know that, I’m not fucking stupid.  And I’m okay with it, as long as there’s something for me to be,” he explains, rushed and chaotic, like he has to say it fast, because he half expects Fletcher to tell him to _shut up_ and Andrew wishes he would, but Fletcher doesn’t, he just listens.

“I couldn’t be your jazz protégé anymore,” Andrew continues, “but I still _needed_ you — because even though you’re insane, you make me a little more sane, as fucked up as that sounds,” and as he says it he realizes it’s kind of stupid too, because he hasn’t been sane since he met Fletcher. “I needed you, but I also needed you to need me.  Do you understand?” 

“I understand that you’re a greedy little bastard,” Fletcher says.

“Yes, well.” Andrew doesn’t deny it — he’s as possessive of Fletcher as Fletcher is of him.  “So I made sure that you’d keep me around.  I _killed_ for you, and guess what — it fucking worked!  _Here you are_ _—_ the second-greatest victory in my life,” Andrew says, and there’s no guessing what his greatest victory is — the acknowledgement that he is Fletcher's _one._ Was. No, _is;_ thathasn't changed _._

Andrew continues, “We’re both psychos but that’s okay because I know it and you do too — we see things differently, nobody understands things like we do.  Remember when you took me by the hand and told me that after I played at Carnegie for the first time?  Remember? So if we _stop_ , what will keep us the same, where’s the common interest? There’d be no purpose, and I’d be nothing!”

He’s crying now, and he knows it’s ugly judging by the repulsed and pitying look on Fletcher’s face. “I try so hard to be necessary and you don’t even notice, you treat me like shit.  And the worst thing is that even if you do stay, you’re going to die first and leave me then, so really, I should just quit while I’m ahead. Or maybe I should get rid of myself now _for_ you and kill myself. Maybe _then_ you’d have a genuine emotion about me, you evil bastard.”

Andrew quiets to a grinding halt, because he’s run out of words and he feels like his lungs are going to burst.  He lets the silence be a cue for Fletcher to speak.

Fletcher looks like he’s trying to figure out how this has gotten so out of control, wondering at what point did things start to slip away.  Which god-fucking-damn, he should know by now that it doesn’t matter because he can’t control shit — he only does, _thinks_ that he does, because Andrew lets him have free reign over him. Fletcher can’t control what they do, and he can’t control what they are, no matter how hard he tries. He can’t control that whether it’s creating (jazz) or destroying (life), there’s an allure that draws them together that’s so strong that it burns them both.  It was never really about the music or the murder — they’ve became less interested in those and more obsessed with each other and neither one wants to admit it, and that is beyond their control.

 _We could have been the best_ , they both think, but they’ll never know for sure.

The white-noise hush breaks when Fletcher hits him, him unable to form words equal to the storm in his head.  He means it like a rejection, a desperate act to hurt Andrew.  But Andrew licks his bloodied lip and _smiles_ — he knows Fletcher’s game, he’s taught him well, so he hits Fletcher back, because the only thing he has to lose is nothing. 

And Fletcher is pleased, and Andrew goes to hit him again, but Fletcher catches him by the wrist and softly says, “Hey,” and lifts Andrew’s hand to his mouth and presses his lips to his knuckles. The hostility of a few seconds ago is gone and Andrew wants to beg for it back.

Fletcher handles Andrew like Andrew has an eggshell heart and could shatter it into a million pieces. Andrew knows Fletcher can, and probably will. But unbeknownst to Fletcher, Andrew can break his heart too.  He’s still his Charlie, bright and _perfect_. Ephemeral.  And if Andrew leaves — well.

It doesn’t matter, because that will never happen.

 

**•••  
**

 

Reading his own obituary is bizarre.  There are facts Andrew recognizes — his name, survived by his father, professional jazz drummer, idealistic and so so devoted — but he can’t fully appreciate it because it’s not _him._ He isn’t the Andrew Neiman who was laid to rest two days prior.  He will never, ever, ever rest. 

“That’s nice,” Fletcher says when Andrew reads the obituary out loud from the phone screen.

Andrew supposes it is. But his soul does not have peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end is near~


	14. at the bottom of everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is, the very last chapter of this au. I cannot thank you all enough for sticking with it, and reading it, and writing such lovely comments — I truly treasure every one. I am beyond flattered, and it inspires me ♥
> 
> ["At the Bottom of Everything"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2GHyLhbdzN0) by Bright Eyes. If you're going to listen to any of these songs, I'd like you to listen to this one. I really think it captures the tone, or whatever.

They don’t stop; it was a joke that they ever could.  The Dyad Killer is now to ninety-six lives taken, and Andrew and Fletcher continue to fight with their hands and their words while on the road and in rented beds. It’s soothing, a routine, but—

—Andrew can’t stop thinking about the empty casket in the snow-covered ground, and his lonesome father that will visit it every weekend. 

The night after the ninety-seventh kill, Andrew wakes from a dead sleep and picks up the hotel phone and dials a number he’s known since childhood. He hangs up five times — once after the first ring, once after two rings, once after the receiver is picked up, and twice after he hears a sleepy, “Hello?” on the other end — before he speaks. 

“Listen, stop calling or—,” Andrew’s dad says, angry, and Andrew laughs because he remembers how fussy his dad could be.

“ _Dad_ ,” Andrew says, and a sob escapes because he didn’t know badly he needed this until now.  He swings his legs over the side of the bed, and waits what feels like an eternity. He wonders if his dad is having to convince himself that it’s real, that it isn’t a dream.

(Andrew is almost having to do the same.) 

“Andrew? Is that really you? Oh my god,” his dad cries, and Andrew wants to shush his dad, say _stop it you’re embarrassing me,_ but instead Andrew just says, “It’s me.”

“I knew you weren’t dead,” his dad says, and he chokes on the word _dead_ like he hasn’t said it in months.  “What happened?  Where are you? What—”

“I can’t say.” Andrew feels Fletcher stirring next to him.  Andrew cups his hand over the receiver and lightly says, “I just wanted to let you know I’m okay. You don’t have to worry.”

Over the buzz of the phone line, Jim Neiman’s thankful praises are muddled.  That goes on for a while, and Andrew allows it. But then his dad regains some seriousness, and asks, “Is he there with you?” his voice turning dark and stony. 

It’s unmistakable _who_ his dad means — Andrew can hear the sneer that’s reserved solely for Fletcher through the phone.

“Fletcher is with me, yes,” Andrew says, and at the mention of his name, Fletcher wakes beside him and mumbles Andrew’s name.

Andrew’s dad becomes a barrage of words, “For the longest time, I thought that he murdered you—”

“He didn’t.”

“I know.” He doesn’t sound entirely convinced. “So did you two escape from the Dyad? Are you coming home?”

“No,” Andrew says, answering both questions at once.  He looks over his shoulder to Fletcher and finds him sitting up, his hair mussed from sleep. Andrew expects Fletcher to yank the phone away from him and give him the beating of a lifetime, but in the shadows he can see him nod, encouraging.  Like he understands Andrew _has_ to do this.

So Andrew continues.

“I’m fine, I swear. But you can’t tell anyone that I called, Dad. Promise me.”

His dad huffs out a sharp exhale.  “Andrew, I don’t understand.  If you can tell me any information, then the authorities can make sure you’re safe, they can come find you—” 

“I don’t want them to find me, that’s the point.  Things are how they are supposed to be,” Andrew says.

He feels Fletcher at his back, whispering in his ear.  “Go ahead,” he says, ever the devil on his shoulder.

Andrew twirls his finger in the phone cord.  “It was us. Me.  The entire time.  It was faked,” Andrew explains with startling lucidity, driven on by Fletcher’s presence. “Well, the murders were real and we did do those, but our deaths — those were faked.” 

It feels so great to finally tell someone else.  To be acknowledged. The crackle of the phone line sounds like applause. 

It’s thirty-four seconds before his dad speaks.  There’s so much he could say, but he settles on a simple, “Why?” 

Andrew shrugs, forgetting that his dad can’t see him, so he follows it with, “Because.”

“Did he make you do it?” his dad asks, and Andrew laughs — and the way it sounds surprises them both.

“No,” Andrew says. “I’m the one who actually started it.” He could try to explain it all, say, _it all started at the end of May when I accidentally killed a drug dealer in my apartment, or it all started with I had to take drugs to keep up with my mind, or it all started in the beginning when I met_ — 

But he doesn’t. They all sound like excuses.

“Why are you telling me this?” his dad asks, his heart breaking.

“I thought it would make you feel better?”

“This is _worse_!  You’re a serial killer!  Andrew, I—” 

“Dad, for fuck’s sake, get a grip.” His dad silences at Andrew’s harsh words, and Andrew kind of feels bad about it, for a moment, but then he’s just annoyed.  He takes a deep breath that rattles against his ribcage, and—

—there’s Fletcher’s hand on his shoulder, _supportive._  Guiding. It calms him, and Andrew says to his dad, “You won’t tell, will you?”

“Of course not!” is his dad’s response, and it’s scathing.  “People _can’t_ know.”

At least they have the same perspective on that. 

“I love you, Andrew, and I’m glad you’re alive,” his dad says, and Andrew pictures his dad’s _tough conversation_ face as he speaks (the same one he had when Andrew was old enough to be told about his mother, and again after Andrew started working with Fletcher), “but maybe…you shouldn’t call again. It’s easier that way.” 

It’s not a surprise to Andrew.  Jim Neiman has already accepted that his son is dead.  But at least Andrew gave him peace of mind that he wasn’t brutally murdered and missing. He knows what happened to him.

Andrew tells his dad that he loves him, and says goodbye for the last time. 

“Are you okay?” Fletcher mumbles a few seconds after the phone clicks off.

“I’m always okay,” Andrew says. Not that he knows what _okay_ is. 

The minimal concern for Andrew’s well-being having been fulfilled, Fletcher lies down.  “You better be.”  Then he says, “I take it that he agreed to your conditions.”

“Yes. He won’t expose us.” _He won’t expose me_ is the true answer, but he and Fletcher come as a package deal.

“I just wanted him to know,” Andrew feebly explains, but he doesn’t finish the thought. It lingers, and it’s like smoke that curls in the air until it’s inhaled through his lungs, asphyxiating. 

“I know,” Fletcher says, and that’s all that Andrew needs to hear.

Andrew could sit there all night, but Fletcher tugs at Andrew’s arm with lazy adamancy to pull him down next to him, and fixes the blankets — two, because cold seeps through the thin walls.  Andrew rolls to his side, facing Fletcher.

“Fletch—,” Andrew begins, but then says, “Terence.”

“None of that, now,” Fletcher says.  “Go to sleep.”

And Andrew does.

 

•••

 

The next morning Andrew wakes up refreshed.

It’s a new day.

He’s alive.

“We can stop,” Andrew says, echoing the same words Fletcher had said to him not too long ago. “With one more it would be ninety-eight, and including us it’d be an even one hundred.”

Fletcher nods, the same way he used to do when Andrew would arrive at a tempo he set out for him. “That’s acceptable,” he says.

There’s one last hoorah — and it’s beautiful, executed as a perfect symphony.  Together they drive the blade in, knowing exactly where to slot it between the ribs and how drive it upward for that sweet deadly gasp, and when blood starts to spill over their hands they don’t look at that but instead at each other.

Unabashed, Andrew leans over to kiss Fletcher chastely on the mouth.

 

•••

 

There are miles behind them, and many more miles ahead of them.  They are by no means complete.  It’s like a half-cadence, where there’s the compulsion to finish out a melody because it sounds incomplete otherwise, a suspended _and then_? 

Neither of them are going to leave; they may think about it and threaten it and wish the other would disappear, but they stay.  They know the best and the worst of each other, and they take both versions.

This is how it is: Andrew and Fletcher, forced together in a way that they don’t entirely understand. This how it goes, they only trust each other, and when the time is right — a murder-suicide is all about trust.

But that part comes later — now it is:

Andrew’s feet are propped up on the dash, content with Fletcher in the driver’s seat and the promise of open roads ahead.  The paper map that is littered with marks and outlines their journey so far is shoved in the back of the glove compartment, no longer needed. 

“Where to?” Fletcher asks. It’s an open invitation, a demand, the cause before the next effect.

(They will go until they find the place they are supposed to be.  They will get jobs that they do not love, but they’ll find time for their passion, and they’ll save enough to buy an average keyboard and drum set. They will be both restless and untroubled at the same time.  They will fight because they can never be uncalibrated not to, but will always find satisfaction with each other.)

“Your choice, maestro,” Andrew says, and once they’re in motion, he doesn’t pay too much attention to where they’re going, because it doesn’t matter.  There’s nothing he can change, and things tend to work themselves out. And if they don’t, he can always adapt.

But they’re doing the right thing, if the buzz in his blood and the drone in his ears are anything to go by — they’ve never steered him wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things that I had planned to happen but did not: when Fletcher got injured a couple chapters ago, Fletcher was going to get very seriously injured, but that just added a whole lot more words to this already ridic length; someone that Andrew and Fletcher knows recognizes them and team jazzy serial killers have to decide what to do with them (in the end I just couldn't do this because it would have been Ryan or Carl that probably got murdered by them); in the beginning for them to go more "Dexter" aka hunting down other serial killers but c'mon, they aren't _that_ competent (and I gave them a lot of the benefit of the doubt here with even pulling off what they did do!); and among other things.
> 
> Anyway. Thank you again for your interest in this wild ride! It's been fun. And you can always reach me at [tumblr](http://acanofpeaches.tumblr.com/) if you want to chat Whiplash stuff :)

**Author's Note:**

> This will have several chapters; it's already all written, so no worries about it becoming abandoned. Oh, and it's going to be slow build, sorry. I hope it's worth it, though. Buckle up, things are going to get weird!
> 
> Thanks for reading — feedback is always appreciated :)


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